UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


POEMS 


BY    GEORGE 


BOSTON 
CUPPLES,  UPHAM  AND  COMPANY 

1884 


Copyr if/hi,  by 
UPHAM  AXD  COMPANY, 
1883. 


BOSTON    STEREOTYPE    FOUNDRY, 
NO   145  HIGH  STREET. 


"P5 


CONTENTS. 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  EAGLE I 

RESPUHLICA 18 

UALI.AD  OF  BUNKER  HILL. 19 

AT  THE  SHORE 27 

THE  MAYFLOWER 28 

HAMPTON  BEACH 30 

SONG 33 

THE  CONTRAST 34 

INSCRIPTIONS  ON  TWO  STATUES  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO  .  36 
SONG  SUNG  AT  FESTIVAL  OF  CHARITABLE  MECHANIC 

ASSOCIATION  OF  BOSTON 37 

THE  SEA 38 

NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SON 40 

OlJE  SUNG  AT  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  THE  STATUE  OF 

WARREN,  AT  CHARLESTOWN,  JUNE  17,  1857  .  .  43 

THE  EMPEROR'S  FUNERAL 4") 

THE  WIND 49 

ODE  IN  CELEBRATION  OF  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE, 

CITY  OF  BOSTON,  JULY  5,  1869  ....  51 
HYMN  SUNG  AT  THE  CAPE  COD  CELEBRATION  OF  PROV- 

INCETOWN,  AUG.  11,  1852 52 

To  A  RETIRED  VETERAN .",  1 

HVMN  IN  HONOR  OF  BYRON 58 

REQUIEM  FOR  ONE  SLAIN  IN  BATTLE.  1862  .  .  .61 

SONG  OF  WELCOME 62 

LINES  AGAINST  REMOVING  WASHINGTON'S  REMAINS  .  C.I 

AT  SEA 65 

BURNING  OF  THE  TOWER .67 


iv  CONTENTS. 

WINTER 68 

To  THE  ENGLISH  FLAG 68 

BLOODY  BROOK 69 

LOVE 73 

LOVE  AT  TWO-SCORE 74 

WARDS  IN  CHANCERY 76 

A  GREEK  SONG 78 

THE  RETURN 79 

UPON  PUNCH'S  "  TRIPPING  TIME  "  ....  80 

THE  MISSISSIPPI 82 

WOMAN'S  TEARS 86 

ANCIENT  LATIN  HYMN 87 

A  MARCH  CONCERT 89 

A  TKIO 91 

PHASMA 92 

THE  LOST  STEAMER  —  THE  ARCTIC  ....  94 

To  LYDIA 96 

MELPOMENE 97 

THE  LAND  OF  JUDAH 98 

JEZREEL 99 

EOUGH  AND  READY 104 

AMURATH  IV. 105 

Music 106 

THE  PILOT- YACHT  "  HAZE  " 107 

CALIGULA 108 

ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH Ill 

ODE  SUNG  AT  FIRST  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  "  STORY 

ASSOCIATION" 113 

TOMB  OF  ALEXANDER 114 

THRENODY 115 

THE  HERO 118 

COURAGE 119 

LINES  ON  THE  DROWNING  OF  A  LOVELY  GIRL  IN  THE 

KENNEBEC 121 

PATRIOTISM 123 


CONTENTS.  V 

AN  AUTUMN  IDYL 124 

THE  MESSAGE 127 

'EEJIEPE   IIA'NTA   *E'PEIS.    K,  T.  X 129 

EASTEK  FLOWERS 129 

THE  FADED  FLOWER 130 

HUNGARIAN  WINE 131 

EPIGRAM 132 

DANAE 133 

GOOD  FAITH 134 

WEBSTER 135 

EPITHALAMIUM 136 

THE  HAY-MAKERS 137 

THE  STORM 139 

DILLY 141 

SUB  EOSA 142 

"API2TON  ME'N  "YAHP 143 

THE  COMET 145 

LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE 146 

McCLELLAN 148 

AT  WAR  .                        150 

SEYMOUR  AT  CHAPULTEPEC 151 

MAY  MORNING 153 

A  HINT 156 

SONNET  FOR  THE  TIMES 157 

A  VALENTINE lf,S 

TARE  AND  TRET 159 

WEBSTER,  EVERETT,  CHOATE 160 

WOMAN 161 

]!KI)IKNS 162 

Tin:  MYSTERY 163 

STANZAS  TO  A  LADY 161 

SONG  ON  RETURN  OF  NATIVES  TO  NEWBURYPORT  .  165 

EPISTLE  TO  ........  166 

To  A.  W.  A 173 

HARMODIUS  AND  ARISTOGEITON 175 


VI  CONTENTS. 

MILTON 176 

EPISTLE  TO  THE  LEARNED  PROF.  HOLDON       .       .  177 

EPIPSICHIDION 181 

AT  KEST 183 

THE  EAST  INDIAN  REVOLT 184 

To  A  LADY 185 

THE  ARK  OF  THE  TABERNACLE 187 

PILGRIM  SONG 190 

MY  SHIP .  191 

AT  THE  GATE 193 

THE  SKATER 195 

DEDICATORY  HYMN 196 

COOLNESS 197 

THE  SLAVE-SHIP;  AFRICA 198 

LETTER  FROM  THE  CITY  TO  THE  COUNTRY  .        .        .  201 

A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE 203 

ARNAULT'S  WITHERED  LEAF 215 

NATIONAL  HYMN 216 

IMITATION  OF  HORACE 217 

"  APPEAL  "....-....  218 

MRS.  GRUNDY 221 

CIVIL  WAR  ANTICIPATED 222 

THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL 224 

SONNET.    ROBERT  C.  WINTHROP        ....  231 

WASHINGTON 232 

HON.  CALEB  GUSHING 233 

HUMBOLDT 234 

A  STATESMAN.    JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS       .        .        .  235 

G.  M.  B.    BOUND  TO  SEA.    B.  M 236 

W.  W.  CORCORAN 237 

SONNETS.    PLURALITY  OF  WORLDS        ....  238 

ST.  ANDREW'S  CHURCH,  HANOVER,  MASS.   .        .  238 

RT.  REV.  MANTON  EASTBURN 239 

RELIGION 240 

PHILOSOPHY       ...  .241 


CONTENTS.  Vli 

PSALM  1 248 

THE  TIME  OF  NEED 250 

HYMN  FOB  A  PUBLIC  OCCASION 2ol 

PSALM  XLVI 252 

EPHESIANS  VI 253 

HYMN 254 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 256 

"  PASS  ON,  RELENTLESS  WORLD  "  257 

HYMN 259 

SONNET.    1  CORINTHIANS  xx 261 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS 262 

HYMN.    "FOREVER  WITH  THE  LORD"      .       .        .  263 

CHRISTIANITY 264 

MATTHEW  XXI 265 

SEASHORE  IDYL  .  .  266 


POEMS. 


THE   DOVE   AND   THE   EAGLE. 

IN  that  soft  season  of  the  year, 
When  early  daisies  first  appear, 
And  new-born  violets  dare  unfold 
The  freshness  of  the  virgin  mould  ; 
When  airs,  of  late  so  wild  and  rude, 
With  soothing  whispers  stir  the  wood, 
And  wakening  nature  feels  the  power 
Of  genial  sun  and  kindly  shower, 
And  the  sweet  season's  influence 
Breathes  softening  over  every  sense  ; 
An  Eagle,  king  of  some  high  peak, 
'Mid  icy  cliffs  and  breezes  bleak, 
Returning  from  the  troubled  shore 
Where  mingling  winds  and  waters  roar  ; 
His  lordly  stomach  gorged  with  prey 
From  screaming  sea-hawk  snatched  away, 
As  stately  onwards  sweeping  through 
The  fields  of  heaven's  celestial  blue, 


2  POEMS. 

Though  his  wild  eye  in  upper  air 
Not  oft  encountered  sight  so  fair, 
Yet  full  before  the  bird  of  Jove 
Sailed  swiftly  on  a  snow-white  Dove. 

The  Dove  was  far  too  conscience-clear, 
To  entertain  a  thought  of  fear ; 
And  whether  't  was  his  recent  foray 
Had  made  his  appetite  so  sorry, 
Or  the  sweet  influence  of  the  season 
Had  brought  his  kingly  maw  to  reason ; 
Or,  since  the  Lion,  as  some  think, 
From  virgin  innocence  will  shrink, 
Our  pure  and  gentle  friend  could  awe 
The  king  of  air  by  nature's  law  ; 
'T  is  certain  some  strange  courtesy 
Half  softened  in  his  wild  gray  eye, 
And  in  his  altered  voice  might  seem 
Something  this  side  his  usual  scream. 

Addressing  her,  which  was  but  reason, 
Since  speaking  first  to  kings  is  treason, 
Just  as  one  overtakes  a  neighbor 
Returning  home  at  eve  from  labor, 
With  compliments  and  easy  chatter, 
And  such  preliminary  matter, 
They  kept  along  with  friendly  feather, 
And  sailed  their  airy  way  together ; 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE. 

?Till  on  a  hill-side,  where  a  block 
Of  bold,  gray,  weather-beaten  rock 
Stood  jutting  out,  but  hung  so  high, 
Poised  midway  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  brook  beneath,  with  gurgling  flow, 
Sent  up  no  murmur  from  below, 
And  scarce  a  stunted  pine-tree  fluttered 
As  sobbing  winds  around  it  muttered, 
Our  new-made  friends,  quite  social  grown, 
Saw  fit  occasion  to  light  down, 
And  thus  of  things  that  touch  the  nation, 
Discoursed  in  serious  conversation. 


"  I,  my  sweet  friend,"  quoth  royalty, 
"  Who  roam  o'er  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
And,  just  to  nature's  sovereign  sway, 
Make  all  that  I  can  seize  my  prey, 
That  grand  and  ancient  rule  of  might, 
Which  is  unquestionably  righj,  — 
Have  frequent  thoughts  come  o'er  my  mind, 
And  chiefly  after  I  have  dined, 
Following  on  any  slight  refection, 
Comes  food  for  serious  recollection ; 
Of  this  strange  instinct,  deeply  planted, 
By  which  my  regal  breast  is  haunted, 
Which  makes  me  quite  forgetful  grow, 
Of  wild  or  gentle,  high  or  low, 


4  POEMS. 

The  moment  hunger's  strong  suggestion 

Presents  the  interesting  question, 

Decided  soon,  betwixt  refining 

And  the  necessity  of  dining; 

Come  quarry  then  within  my  swoop, 

And  morals  all  go  cock-a-hoop. 

"  Yet  when  from  some  such  airy  height 
As  this,  commanding  ample  sight, 
I  look  beneath  upon  the  plain, 
And  man,  who  claims  consummate  reign, 
And  view  the  selfish,  squabbling  creatures 
Defile  their  hearts  and  soil  their  natures, 
'T  is  then  my  royal  stomach  rises, 
To  watch  their  tricks  and  mean  devices, 
And  my  own  conscience,  that  before 
Creaked    like    some    ill-made,    wind-swung 

door, 

Forgetful  of  its  former  twinges, 
Works  as  if  bo'rne  on  fresh-oiled  hinges. 

"You  pretty  one,  whose  gentle  life 
Knows  little  of  my  fiercer  strife, 
But  whom  your  station  leads  to  see 
Much  general  society, 
Fain  would  I  know,  in  honest  part, 
How  these  things  strike  your  simple  heart." 


THE   DOVE  AND    THE  EAGLE.  0 

"  Right  noble  Sir,"  replied  the  Dove, 
"  Our  life,  indeed,  is  one  of  love  ; 
Not  we,  with  reverence  be  it  said, 
Prey  on  the  living  or  the  dead ; 
Our  daily  food  some  scattered  grains, 
Picked,  here  and  there,  with  wondrous  pair:  \ 
And  quite  remote  from  every  trouble, 
Save  now  and  then  some  barn-door  squabble  ; 
Such  momentary  miffs  as  rise 
When  this  or  that  one  finds  a  prize, 
Domestic  bliss  thence  grows  completer, 
As  passing  clouds  make  sunshine  sweeter. 
Our  lives  thus  passed  in  peace  and  quiet, 
On  good,  plain,  wholesome,  honest  diet, 
Whence  best  philosophers  agree 
Come  purest  thoughts,  ambition  free, 
We  circle  through  the  yielding  air, 
Unvexed  by  life's  absorbing  care  ; 
To  live  and  love  our  one  desire, 
To  naught  beyond  our  souls  aspire ; 
My  very  heart  the  thought  would  harrow, 
To  turn  the  feather  of  a  sparrow, 
Xor  would  my  conscience  let  me  stifle 
Things  you,  great  Sir,  might  deem  a  trifle. 
We  see  this  world,  as  on  it  scrambles, 
Find  roses  much  more  scarce  than  brambles, 
Deducing  such  unwholesome  fruit, 
From  selfishness,  its  bitter  root ; 


6  POEMS. 

But  hold  our  rule,  that  every  brother 
Is  happiest  helping  one  another, 
And  best  displays  his  Christian  part, 
By  act  humane  and  kindly  heart. 

"Perhaps  these  rustic  things  I  mention 
Scarce  worthy  your  serene  attention  ; 
No  life  we  lead  among  the  great, 
Nor  comprehend  affairs  of  state." 

"  True,  gentle  friend,"  the  Eagle  said, 
And  somewhat  tossed  his  haughty  head, 
"  'T  is  plainly  to  be  seen  your  station 
Precludes  much  general  observation  ; 
And  yet  I  muse  that  this  world's  folly 
Has  never  made  you  melancholy. 

"  Methinks  that  common  sense  and  reason 
Have  grown,  at  length,  quite  out  of  season ; 
No  more  the  heart  and  soul  heroic, 
No  more  the  virtues  of  the  stoic, 
No  more  the  counsels  of  the  sage, 
No  more  the  reverence  due  to  age, 
No  more  the  burning,  generous  youth 
That  pants  for  glory,  lives  for  truth ; 
But  blank  conceit  and  weak  pretence, 
And  morals  shallow  as  its  sense  ; 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE.  1 

Its  ancient  honor  all  polluted, 

Its  old,  plain,  manly  mind  diluted  ; 

For  good,  strong,  honest,  homely  thought, 

Stuff  made  of  dreams  and  cobweb-wrought, 

And  all  that  fired,  and  all  that  shone, 

Dimmed,  quenched,  extinct,  contemned,  and 

gone  ; 

So  much  confused  that  once  was  glorious, 
And  silly  mischief  half  victorious ; 
This,  my  dear  friend,  the  social  state 
Which  makes  me  sadden  at  its  fate. 
This  world  is  sick,  you  may  be  sure, 
Beyond  all  art  or  nature's  cure, 
A  mighty  monster,  HUMBUG  hight, 
Has  clutched  it  fast  and  holds  it  tight. 

"  Hear  its  reformers  from  the  gutter 
Their  new-found  moral  notions  utter, 
And  Truth  would  seem  but  just  begun 
To  show  its  face  beneath  the  sun ! 
Their  darkened  minds  catch  some  faint  gleam 
Of  holy  Light's  perennial  beam, 
And  owl-like  fluttering,  who  but  they 
Discoverers  of  the  God  of  Day ! 
One  just  has  gained  a  glimmering  notion 
Of  Heaven's  high  claim  to  man's  devotion, 
And  straight  he  leaps  the  whole  relation 
Of  man,  time,  place,  degree,  and  station, 


8  POEMS. 

Despises  what  is  only  real, 
Grapples  the  abstract  and  ideal, 
And  what  he  jumps  to  for  conclusion, 
Would  make  the  universe  confusion. 

"  Some  tippling  vagabond  starts  up 
To  dash  in  time  the  poisoned  cup ; 
Feels,  as  he  wakes  to  sober  sadness, 
This  the  great  sin,  —  the  primal  madness  ; 
And,  heedless  that  life's  noblest  use 
Might  be  denounced  by  its  abuse, 
Of  all  true  virtue,  to  his  thinking, 
The  sum  consists  in  water  drinking, 
And  the  law,  moral  and  divine, 
Means  only  abstinence  from  wine  ! 

"  And  in  this  world  of  good  and  evil, 
Where  much  seems  sadly  out  of  level, 
And  triumph  often  crowns  the  bad, 
While  virtue  suffers  and  is  sad ; 
Where  wisdom  starves  and  walks  alone, 
Folly  in  crowds  and  overgrown ; 
Where  fortune  waits  upon  the  knave 
And  this  is  free  and  that  a  slave  ; 
In  such  a  state,  so  oddly  blended, 
But  all,  no  doubt,  for  good  intended, 
Since  Heaven's  high  purpose  can  educe 
From  seeming  evil  real  use ;  — 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE. 

Some  puny  whipster,  by  this  light, 
Deems  himself  born  to  set  all  right, 
And  thinks  the  very  mischief  in  it, 
If  he  can't  mend  it  in  a  minute ; 
To  madness  seems  completely  given,  — 
Flies  in  the  face  of  earth  and  heaven,  — 
Because  his  modest  innovation, 
Fails  to  remodel  all  creation  ! 

"  No,  my  good  friend,  whoever  tries 
To  use,  as  nature  meant,  his  eyes, 
Will  find  how  tends  all  such  philosophy 
The  mind  to  cloud,  the  heart  to  ossify ; 
Uncured  as  yet  life's  state  of  ill, 
Though  social  sophists  preach  their  fill ; 
And  manly  strength  and  courage  high, 
And  the  bold  heart's  true  constancy, 
So  needful  never  yet  became 
To  touch  life's  embers  into  flame, 
To  wake  it  from  its  sluggish  sleep, 
To  give  its  nobler  purpose  sweep, 
To  free  the  truth,  which  really  seems, 
Half  buried  under  idle  dreams, 
And  cleanse  it  of  this  whining  stuff, 
Of  which,  methinks,  we  Ve  had  enough." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Dove,  "  I  grieve  to  find 
Such  sadness  vex  your  royal  mind ; 


10  POEMS 

Much  to  which  mortals  are  addicted 

I  own  my  bosom  has  afflicted ; 

Old  things  have  lost  their  old  respect, 

And  good  things  fallen  into  neglect ; 

In  manners  there  is  too  much  looseness, 

In  moral  sense  a  strange  obtuseness ; 

Those  ancient  words,  which  once  had  power 

To  guide  and  rule  life's  varied  hour, 

Faith,  bright  with  glories  from  afar, 

Honor,  of  noble  minds  the  star, 

Truth,  like  a  cuirass,  clasped  and  prest 

Forever  on  the  generous  breast,  — 

The  modest  mien,  that  shrinks  from  vice, 

The  unsullied  soul,  beyond  all  price,  — 

Such  things  are  shorn  of  half  their  worth, 

Since  transcendental  light  broke  forth, 

A  mocking,  flickering,  feeble  ray, 

Fit  to  lead  fools  the  downward  way. 


"  Even  I,  who  seldom  speculate, 
Am  vexed  at  times  with  much  debate, 
Disturbed  in  mind  with  strange  confusions, 
Touching  the  end  of  these  delusions ; 
Since  modern  socialists  have  free  sent 
Their  doctrines,  neither  wise  nor  decent, 
And,  flagrant  in  their  false  ambition, 
Even  unsexed  women  preach  sedition. 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE.  11 

"  Yet  should  not  we,  with  honest  hearts, 
Act  as  we  may  our  several  parts, 
Nor  while  these  sinners  blow  their  bubbles, 
Distress  ourselves  with  needless  troubles  ? 
This  world  wags  on,  blow  high  or  low,"  — 
"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Eagle,  "say  not  so  ; 
It  quite  delights  me  to  discover 
You  sometimes  think  these  matters  over ; 
And,  though  my  nature  prompts  to  war 
By  regum  ratio  ultima, 
And,  in  our  state  of  imperfection, 
To  this  I  see  no  just  objection ; 
Yet  Heaven  forefend  that  I  should  prove 
Traitor  to  Heaven's  high  law  of  Love. 
But,  in  this  world  of  rampant  vice, 
We  need  discrimination  nice  ; 
To  love  the  bad  were  scarcely  just 
Like  those  who  most  deserve  our  trust ; 
And  to  keep  peace  with  all  things  evil, 
Seems  much  like  treaty  with  the  Devil. 


"  Believe  me,  friend,  this  world's  affairs 
Demand  profoundest  thoughts  and  cares, 
Lest,  'mid  the  turmoil,  heat,  and  passion, 
Truth  grow  entirely  out  of  fashion. 
Poor  husbandry  it  were,  't  is  plain, 
To  burn  the  field  of  golden  grain, 


12  POEMS. 

Because  the  tare's  unwholesome  weed 
Springs  neighbor  to  the  bounteous  seed. 

"  And  yet  such  shallow  casuistry, 
Scarce  fit  for  Epicurus'  sty, 
Has  vogue  enough  to  cheat  the  many, 
Led  by  some  jack-o'-lantern  zany, 
Pregnant  with  unsubstantial  schemes 
Wrought  out  of  cloud  by  John-a-dreams. 

"  Little  they  reck,  to  gain  one  point, 
Though  all  things  else  get  out  of  joint, 
And,  for  some  partial  good,  would  deal 
Woe  to  the  universal  weal. 
Nothing  is  more  absurd  to  see 
Than  this  miscalled  philanthropy  ! 
High,  holy,  pure,  the  gracious  plan 
Which  bids  man  love  his  fellow-man ; 
Yet  who  can  honor  him,  whoso  breast 
For  one  pet  wrong  neglects  the  rest? 
Who,  reckless  of  time,  mode,  and  season, 
Pushes  conclusions  out  of  reason  ; 
Till  his  philanthropy,  indignant, 
Assumes  a  type  but  too  malignant ; 
And  zeal,  turned  gall,  begets  a  spite 
To  all  but  his  own  rule  of  right, 
And  mounts  him  on  his  special  evil, 
To  ride  it  to  the  very  devil ! 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE.  13 

"  Give  me  that  patriot  love,  whose  glow 
The  manliest,  gentlest  bosoms  know, 
That,  with  the  statesman's  wiser  soul, 
Protects  the  part,  maintains  the  whole ; 
Not  his  who,  mad  for  any  cause, 
Hates  his  own  country  and  her  laws ; 
Her  Constitution's  starry  glory,  — 
Each  gallant  theme  that  gilds  her  story, 
All  other  rights  of  man  or  woman, 
All  other  things  divine  and  human ; 
Because  such  slight  considerations 
Withstand  his  wiser  inclinations ! 


"  One  man  conceives  that  non-resistance 
Involves  no  serious  inconsistence, 
So  he  hold  off  from  clapper-claws, 
Whate'er  the  license  of  his  jaws  ; 
Though  he  is  very  far  from  chary 
In  choice  of  his  vocabulary ; 
Than  Ancient  Pistol  no  more  nice  is 
In  language,  or  than  King  Cambyses ; 
In  conscience  he  is  far  too  tender 
To  Cesar  Cesar's  things  to  render ; 
Though  social  order's  strong  defences 
Protect  him  from  harm's  consequences  ; 
But  flouts  the  LAW,  whose  holy  fiat 
Maintains  the  universal  quiet, 


14  POEMS. 

And  sovereign,  when  lie  wakes  or  sleeps, 
His  silly  head  from  mischief  keeps. 

"  And  thus  it  comes,  that  he  whose  mind 
To  its  own  lot  has  felt  resigned, 
Who  always  led  a  quiet  life, 
Apart  from  this  world's  fever  strife, 
Has  loved  his  country  and  obeyed 
The  laws,  which  all  his  safety  made ; 
Honored  his  betters,  —  did  his  duty, 
And  all  whose  days  were  daity  beauty ; 
Who  spoke  no  scandal,  writ  no  libel, 
But  feared  his  God  and  read  his  Bible  ! 
And  hoped  that  virtuous  means  would  tend 
To  win,  at  last,  the  good  man's  end ; 
Why  such,  who  honor  earth,  and  give 
Heaven's  holy  lesson  how  to  live,  — 
Why  such,  so  pure,  so  true,  so  wise, 
If  yet  they  breathe  beneath  the  skies, 
Our  modern  witlings  view  with  loathing, 
As  just  precisely  good  for  nothing ; 
So  useless,  so  behind  the  age, 
Superfluous  laggards  on  life's  stage !  " 

"  And  yet,  methinks,"  rejoined,  the  Dove, 
"  Our  gentle  life  of  sinless  love 
Presents  an  ever  bright  example, 
And  proves  a  panoply  most  ample 


THE  DOVE  AND   THE  EAGLE.  15 

Against  those  ills  you  so  much  dread,"  — 
And  more,  perchance,  she  would  have  said,  — 
But,  as  some  blessing  often  springs 
Beneath  misfortune's  brooding  wings, 
So  frequent,  in  our  proudest  hours 
Some  unexpected  evil  lowers  ; 
And  thus  it  happened,  as  she  spake, 
A  slimy,  creeping,  deadly  snake, 
(Who,  by  his  one  idea  so  blinded, 
The  king  of  air  had  never  minded,) 
Regardless  of  the  law  of  love, 
Like  lightning  sprang  upon  the  Dove  ! 
Round  her  white  neck  his  folds  enwreathing, 
Had  stopped  the  fluttering  creature's  breath 
ing; 

But  that  the  Eagle,  who  astounded, 
By  such  impertinence  confounded, 
A  second  stood,  —  then  like  a  thought 
The  intruder  in  his  talons  caught, 
Stretched  all  his  loathly  length  before  him, 
And  to  a  thousand  ribbons  tore  him  ! 

Serenely  turning,  not  a  ruffle 
Received  from  such  inglorious  scuffle, 
But  with  that  air  of  satisfaction 
Which  waits  upon  a  virtuous  action, 
(While  the  poor  Dove  stood  trembling  by 
With  quaking  heart  and  drooping  eye,) 


16  POEMS. 

"  My  lovely  friend,"  the  Eagle  said, 
"  Your  foe,  thanks  to  the  stars,  is  dead ; 
Chase  then  away  this  sad  dejection, 
And  find  some  lesson  worth  reflection. 

.     "  This  world  of  ours,  beyond  debate, 
Is  but  a  very  mixed  estate  ; 
Unvalued  half  its  virtues  shine, 
Its  pearls  are  cast  before  the  swine, 
And  folly  sweeps  its  noblest  things, 
As  down  flies  on  the  whirlwind's  wings, 
Or  autumn  leaves,  flung  on  the  river, 
Float  downwards  till  they  sink  forever. 
Helpless,  alas  !  your  very  sweetness, 
Without  my  strength  and  fiery  fleetness, 
Against  such  creeping,  noisome  creature, 
Of  sordid  heart  and  grovelling  nature  ; 
And  if  my  counsel  you  would  ponder, 
'T  would  teach  you  not  from  home  to  wander, 
Since  from  such  harms  your  innocence 
Would  prove,  I  fear,  but  weak  defence. 

"For  might  I,  madam,  dare  propound 
Advice  which  I  conceive  most  sound, 
For  feathered  creatures  fit  and  human, 
For  every  Dove  and  every  woman.  — 
It  is,  that  all  their  loveliest  graces 
Shine  most  in  their  appropriate  places, 


THE  DOVE  AND    THE  EAGLE.  17 

Swaying,  at  home,  with  gentle  art 

Their  mighty  empire  of  the  heart ; 

Not  circling  round  in  distant  flights, 

Nor  gadding  out,  in  quest  of  rights. 

For  rights  unmeet  that  women  gain 

Do  but  sophisticate  their  reign, 

Break  through  life's  holiest,  sweetest  trance, 

Dispel  the  dream  of  young  romance, 

Defraud  them  of  that  proud  submission 

We  gladly  yield  to  their  condition, 

Are  treason  to  that  empire  clear 

Ruled  by  the  law  of  smile  and  tear, 

And  could  they  think  it  worth  pursuing, 

Would  only  end  in  their  undoing. 

"  And  now  a  something  at  my  heart 
Tells  me,  sweet  friend,  't  is  best  we  part, 
You  for  the  softer  walks  of  life, 
I  for  the  crag,  the  storm,  the  strife ; 
And,  to  be  plain,  as  I  'm  a  sinner, 
Some  intimations  touching  dinner, 
Unsafe  for  you,  my  lovely  guest, 
Unworthy  of  my  royal  breast, 
Urge  me  to  end  our  conversation 
By  swallowing  you  for  my  collation  ; 
Fly  then  in  time,  adieu,  adieu  !  " 
And  down  the  yielding  air  she  flew, 
While  he,  on  mighty  pinions  spread, 
Up  to  his  crag-built  eyry  sped. 


18  POEMS. 


RESPUBLICA. 

WHEN  Greece,  in  arts  and  arms  supreme, 
Rose  sovereign  o'er  her  darkened  age, 

And  lent  its  old,  immortal  theme 
To  grateful  History's  burning  page  : 

When  words,  like  arrows  winged  with  fire, 
Touched  hearts  that  kindled  at  the  flame, 

And  Song,  re-echoing  to  her  lyre, 

Heard  the  far  voice  of  coming  Fame : 

Then  Freedom  kept,  a  guarded  mound, 
That  fortressed  rock,  where  Athens  sate, 

And  Wisdom's  soul,  divinely  crowned, 
Its  sheltering  genius,  held  the  State. 

Resistless  Thought  its  vital  beam 
To  bard  and  sage  and  hero  gave, 

That  long  has  lit  Time's  upward  stream, 
And  shines  eternal  on  the  wave. 

This  was  her  boast,  and  is  her  pride, 
The  old  Republic's  stern  behest ; 

That  mind  to  answering  mind  replied, 
And  they  who  swayed  her  were  her  best. 


BALLAD  OF  BUNKER  HILL.  19 

This  wrote  her  story  with  the  stars,  — 
She  perished  I  how,  her  annals  tell ; 

Hate,  envy,  meanness,  all  that  mars 
And  Folly  ruled,  as  Greatness  fell. 

Then  Force,  arid  Fraud's  barbarian  will 
Rose  o'er  the  nobler  mind's  decay, 

And  sank  on  tower  and  templed  hill 
The  twilight  shades  that  closed  her  day. 

This  golden  moral  Eld  unrolls, 
O  proud  Republic !  to  thine  eyes ; 

Bids  thee  love  most  thy  noblest  souls, 
For  Freedom  sinks  when  Honor  dies  ! 


BALLAD   OF   BUNKER   HILL. 

FAST  fled  morn's  shadows  gray, 
And  with  the  breaking  day 

Our  hearts  grew  still ; 
But  ere  that  ruddy  beam 
Tinged  Mystic's  silent  stream, 
Flashed  the  red  cannon's  gleam 

By  Bunker  Hill. 

Last  eve  the  stars  looked  down, 
And  from  the  distant  town 

We  heard  —  "  All 's  well !  " 


20  POEMS. 

Sternly  and  still,  all  night, 
How  grew  our  bulwark's  height 
We  and  that  starry  light 
Alone  could  tell. 

Morn  saw  our  rampart  crowned, 
Nor  pierced  our  turf-clad  mound 

Their  iron  storm ; 
Then  ceased  that  fiery  shower ; 
Gathered  the  foe  his  power ; 
Welcome  the  desperate  hour  — 

His  squadrons  form ! 

Out  spoke  our  leader,  then : 
"Freemen  are  ye  and  men  — 

The  tyrant  comes  ! 
Bravely  your  fathers  stood, 
Yours  too  is  English  blood, 
Up  —  never  cause  so  good  — 

God  and  your  homes  !  " 

Then,  sight  no  fairer  seen, 
That  day,  on  summer  green, 

Saw  June's  sweet  sun ; 
Such  merry  airs  they  played, 
Were  so  gallantly  arrayed  — 
Did  they  march  to  parade  ? 

Gayly  begun  ! 


BALLAD   OF  BUNKER  HILL.  21 

We  from  our  fort's  low  crest, 
Our  muskets  down  at  rest, 

Glance  in  a  row ; 
There,  not  a  drum-beat  stirred, 
But  "  Steady  !  "  —  all  we  heard  — 
"  Keep  your  fire,  wait  the  word, 

Then,  boys,  aim  low !  " 

Up,  up  they  rush,  —  they  cheer 
Must  we  stand  idle  here 

And  tamely  die  ? 
"  Fire,  fire  !  "  the  order  came  ; 
Heavens  !  what  a  burst  of  flame  ! 
True  every  marksman's  aim  — 

They  fall  —  they  fly! 

Close  on  our  left  a  shout  — 
At  our  outwork  a  rout  — 

Hurrah  !  he  runs  ! 
Right-about  go  musketeer 
And  reeling  grenadier, 
Brave  Putnam  on  their  rear 

Plies  his  big  guns. 

Broken,  they  fly  the  hill, 
Our  shot  with  right  good-will 
Follows  them  fast ; 


22  POEMS. 

Drooping,  they  reach  the  plain, 
Like  stalks  of  trampled  grain, 
Where  the  storm-driven  rain 
Beat,  as  it  passed. 

Then,  lowered  a  murkier  cloud 
On  battle's  lurid  shroud  — 

Ah,  cruel  flame ! 
They  fire  yon  helpless  town  — 
Suits  this  a  king's  renown  ? 
Perish,  then,  England's  crown, 

And  kindred  name ! 

They  form  —  brief  space  they  grant  • 
Not  one  rebuff  must  daunt 

Stout  English  hearts ; 
Quick-step  their  columns  tread, 
Pigott,  none  nobler  led, 
And  Howe  is  at  their  head  — 

They  '11  play  their  parts. 

As  rolls  the  beaten  drum, 
Up  the  hill-side  they  come, 

Firm  ranks  and  fast ; 
"We  pour  our  fiery  hail, 
Their  shaken  squadrons  quail, 
As  saplings  in  a  gale 

Bend  to  the  blast. 


BALLAD  OF  BUNKER  HILL.  23 

Then  might  our  ringing  cheer 
Beleaguered  Boston  hear 

Tell  how  we  speed ; 
Dashed  Clinton  from  her  shore, 
His  red-coats  at  the  oar, 
Never  claimed  battle  more 

Ally,  at  need. 

Away  the  war-cloud  rolled ; 
Prescott,  our  captain  bold, 

True  soldier  known  — 
He  cried  —  "  One  more  brave  blow, 
Once  more  repel  the  foe, 
And  England's  King  shall  grow 

Pale  on  his  throne  !  " 

We  fire  —  they  swerve,  they  halt  — 
Then,  to  the  fierce  assault 

Leap  o'er  their  slain  ; 
Now,  brothers,  steadfast  stand  — 
Now  for  it,  hand  to  hand, 
When  England's  rallying  band 

Charges  amain. 

By  Heavens  !  our  low  redoubt  — 
Its  foot  they  reach  —  they  shout  — 
"  Ours  is  the  day !  " 


24  POEMS. 

Down  —  down  —  far  ruddier  yet, 
With  mingled  hearts'-blood  wet, 
Reeks  this  red  parapet, 
Ere  ends  the  fray. 

Our  chief,  from  rank  to  rank, 
And  Putnam,  on  our  flank, 

Marked  how  we  stood ; 
Stark,  grimly  calm,  was  there, 
Pomeroy  with  silvery  hair, 
Knowlton,  none  braver  were, 

Chester,  as  good. 

"He  moves  once  more  —  't  is  well, 
Let  every  bullet  tell !  " 

So  the  words  rang  ; 
We  thought  of  Heaven's  grace, 
Then  watched  the  green  hill's  base, 
And  the  foe  in  the  face 

Looked,  as  he  sprang. 

Nor  now,  in  desperate  strife, 
For  victory,  but  for  life, 

We  hold  our  own ; 
Not  yet  they  gain  the  wall ; 
Still  scorn  we  steel  and  ball, 
And  comrades,  as  they  fall, 

Disdain  to  groan. 


BALLAD  OF  BUNKER  HILL.  25 

Oh,  for  one  volley  more  ! 

Ah,  dear-spent  flasks,  your  store 

Fails  at  the  worst ! 
See,  o'er  the  bastion's  verge 
Their  furious  way  they  urge, 
And  in,  like  surge  on  surge, 

Headlong  they  burst ! 

No  —  not  a  foot  give  way ! 
Club  your  arms  —  stand  at  bay  ! 

Stoutly  we  stood ; 
Met  the  sharp  bayonet's  dash, 
The  quick,  close  firelock's  flash, 
The  broadsword's  ringing  clash 

Gave  all  we  could. 

"  Fall  back ! "  reluctant  cries 
Our  chief,  as  from  his  eyes 

Hope  takes  its  flight ; 
And  backward,  as  we  go, 
Butt  to  butt,  blow  for  blow, 
With  our  front  to  the  foe  — 

So  went  the  fight. 

Through  dust  and  smoke  and  heat, 
Step  by  step,  we  retreat, 
Inch  by  inch  given  ; 


26  POEMS. 

Then,  deadliest  of  the  whole, 
Some  random  volley's  roll 
Warren's  great  martyr-soul 
Ushered  to  Heaven ! 

As  down  the  lost  hill's  banks 
We  move  with  breaking  ranks, 

Our  sad  hearts  burn  ; 
Few  shot  the  foeman  flings, 
Nor  on  our  rear  he  springs, 
To  give  the  coward  wings, 

When  brave  men  turn. 

We  thread  the  long  defile, 
The  foe  keeps  fast,  the  while, 

His  dear-bought  hold ; 
Taught,  early,  to  beware 
What  "  rustic  "  hearts  may  dare 
And  we  leave  a  lesson  there 

Long  to  be  told. 

So  Bunker  Hill  was  won, 

And  great  deeds,  that  day  done, 

World-wide  grew  known; 
When  Victory  was  but  shame, 
Defeat,  eternal  fame, 
And  Time  one  blazing  name 

Gained,  all  his  own ! 


AT  THE  SHORE.  27 


AT   THE   SHORE. 

I  DWELL  beside  a  silent  sea, 

Where  seldom  comes  the  hoarser  shout 
Of  waves  in  concert  with  the  rout 

Of  wild  winds  piping  loud  and  free. 

Landlocked  between  embracing  clifts, 
The  placid  swell  that  fills  the  bay, 
When  summer  breezes  gently  play, 

The  fisher's  wherry  scarcely  lifts. 

But  when  the  East  flings  wide  its  doors, 

And  issues  forth  Euroclydon, 

Then  the  great  waves  come  tumbling  on, 
And  the  mad  beach  tumultuous  roars. 

Though  frequent  gallant  ships  go  by, 
From  Europe  and  from  Indian  realms, 
Not  often  their  returning  helms, 

Veiled  by  the  tall  clift,  meet  mine  eye. 

Yet,  sometimes  on  the  horizon's  verge 

As  if  a  forest  fringed  the  sea, 

Of  fisher-craft,  such  company 
Out  of  the  morning  mist  emerge. 


28  POEMS. 

To  windward  peals  across  the  bay, 
At  times,  the  fog-bell's  sullen  boom, 
Till  for  himself  the  sun  makes  room, 

And  mists  like  shadows  melt  away. 

'Mid  foliage  deep  my  dwelling  lies ; 

Beneath,    the    green    grows    bright    with 
flowers ; 

Above,  glad  birds  in  summer  bowers 
Trill  forth  all  day  their  melodies. 

And  here,  with  books  of  long-cut  leaves, 
And  rural  strolls,  we  pass  the  time  ; 
Then  the  moon's  wave-borne  rise  sublime 

We  hail  beneath  our  shadowing  eaves. 

For  with  me  dwell  companions  bright, 
Of  sober  thought,  but  spirits  gay, 
And,  well  or  ill,  time  glides  away, 

From  night  to  morn,  from  morn  to  night. 


THE   MAYFLOWER. 

SWEET  as  the  honored  name 
Their  storm-tossed  shallop  bore, 

The  memory  of  our  fathers'  fame, 
And  green  forevermore. 


THE  MAYFLOWER.  29 

Peace  to  their  hallowed  graves, 

That  consecrate  the  ground, 
Where  first  a  refuge  from  the  waves 

Their  pilgrim  footsteps  found. 

What  mortal  sighs  and  tears 

Swelled  on  that  wintry  sod ! 
How  cast  they  all  their  cares  and  fears 

And  every  hope  on  God ! 

And  wild  as  winds,  that  sweep 

Along  the  savage  shore, 
Rose  thoughts  of  homes  beyond  the  deep, 

Their  pleasant  homes  no  more. 

But  grander  visions  greet 

Their  prophet-lighted  eyes, — 

They  trod  the  world  beneath  their  feet, 
And  marched  to  join  the  skies. 

Triumphant  over  earth, 

Faith,  that  their  spirits  fed, 
Beamed,  like  a  gem  of  priceless  worth 

On  each  uplifted  head. 

No  flaming  sign  they  sought 
To  light  their  venturous  road, 

They  owned  the  unseen  Hand  that  wrought, 
And  in  His  strength  abode. 


30  POEMS. 

But,  to  their  souls'  desire,  — 
Though  dark  to  mortal  view,  — 

The  daily  cloud  and  night]}'  fire 
Shone,  clear  as  Jacob  knew. 

Vain  doubt  and  fear  and  care,  — 

The  desert  and  the  flood,  — 
They  knew  the  God  they  served  was  there, 

And  in  His  name  they  stood. 

Thoughts,  more  than  human  great, 

Came  to  their  spirits'  call, 
And  thus  they  built  the  stable  State, 

In  Him,  their  hope,  their  all. 

And  far  as  rolls  the  swell 

Of  Time's  returnless  sea, 
Where  empires  rise  and  nations  dwell, 

Their  Pilgrim  fame  shall  be ! 


HAMPTON   BEACH. 

"O  MARE,  o  litus,  verum  secretumque  museum,  quam  multa 
dictatis,  —  quam  multa  invenitis  !  " — Plin. 

AGAIN  upon  the  sounding  shore 
And,  oh,  how  blest,  again  alone  ! 
I  could  not  bear  to  hear  thy  roar, 
Thy  deep,  thy  long,  majestic  tone ; 


HAMPTON  BEACH.  31 

I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  one 
Could  view  with  me  thy  swelling  might, 
And  like  a  very  stock  or  stone, 
Turn  coldly  from  the  glorious  sight 
And  seek  the  idle  world,  to  hate  and  fear 
and  fight. 

Thou  art  the  same,  eternal  sea ! 
The  earth  hath  many  shapes  and  forms, 
Of  hill  and  valley,  flower  and  tree ; 
Fields  that  the  fervid  noontide  warms, 
Or  winter's  rugged  grasp  deforms, 
Or  bright  with  autumn's  golden  store  ; 
Thou  coverest  up  thy  face  with  storms 
Or  smil'st  serene,  —  but  still  thy  roar 
And  dashing  foam  go  up  to  vex  the  sea-beat 
shore. 

I  see  thy  heaving  waters  roll, 
I  hear  thy  stern  uplifted  voice, 
And  trumpet-like  upon  my  soul 
Falls  the  deep  music  of  that  noise, 
Wherewith  thou  dost  thyself  rejoice  ; 
The  ships  that  on  thy  bosom  play 
Thou  dashest  them  about  like  toys, 
And  stranded  navies  are  thy  prey ; 
Strown  on  thy  rock-bound  coast,  torn  by  the 
whirling  spray. 


32  POEMS. 

At  summer  twilight  soft  and  calm, 
Or  when  in  stormy  grandeur  drest 
Peals  up  to  heaven  the  eternal  psalm, 
That  swells  within  thy  boundless  breast ; 
Thy  curling  waters  have  no  rest  — 
But  day  and  night  the  ceaseless  throng 
Of  waves  that  wait  thy  high  behest 
Speak  out  in  utterance  deep  and  strong, 
And  loud   the   craggy  beach   howls   back 
their  savage  song. 

Terrible  art  thou  in  thy  wrath,  — 
Terrible  in  thine  hour  of  glee, 
When  the  strong  winds  upon  their  path 
Bound  o'er  thy  breast  tumultuously, 
And  shout  their  chorus  loud  and  free 
To  the  sad  sea-bird's  mournful  wail, 
As,  heaving  with  the  heaving  sea, 
The  broken  mast  and  shattered  sail 
Tell  of  thy  cruel  strength  the  lamentable 
tale. 

Ay,  't  is  indeed  a  glorious  sight 
To  gaze  upon  thine  ample  face ; 
An  awful  joy,  —  a  deep  delight ! 
I  see  thy  laughing  waves  embrace 
Each  other  in  their  frolic  race ; 
I  sit  above  the  flashing  spray 


33 


That  foams  around  this  rocky  base, 
And  as  the  bright  blue  waters  play, 
Feel  that  my  thoughts,  my  life,  perchance 
are  vain  as  they. 

This  is  thy  lesson,  mighty  sea  ! 
Man  calls  the  dimpled  earth  his  own, 
The  flowery  vale,  the  golden  lea  ; 
And  on  the  wild  gray  mountain-stone 
Claims  nature's  temple  for  his  throne  ; 
But  where  thy  many  voices  sing 
Their  endless  song,  the  deep,  deep  tone 
Calls  back  his  spirit's  airy  wing  ; 
He  shrinks  into  himself  where  God  alone 
is  king  ! 


SONG. 

WITH  you,  methinks,  my  every  hour 

Of  every  day  and  every  night, 
Like  creatures  winged  from  flower  to  flower, 

Were  only  flown  for  fresh  delight. 

Your  bloom  —  not  so  the  morning  rose 

Embosomed  in  her  blushes  lies, 
Nor  deep  through  midnight's  azure  glows 

A  beam  to  match  those  lovelit  eyes. 


34  POEMS. 

And  sweet  as  song,  that  faints  remote, 
Of  evening's  home-returning  bird, 

Or  softer  wind-harp's  airy  note, 

Breathes  to  my  soul  your  whispered  word. 

Yet,  like  some  pledge  of  priceless  worth, 
I  hold  you  in  my  bosom's  shrine, 

And  deem  it  joy  too  dear  for  earth, 
Whene'er  I  dare  to  call  you  mine. 

For  on  your  charms  I  feel  impressed 
What  earthly  charms,  alas,  must  prove ! 

And,  folded  to  a  human  breast, 
Almost  divine  becomes  my  love. 

And  such  a  love  for  mortal  thing, 

So  sweet,  but  oh,  so  insecure ! 
Broods  like  an  angel  o'er  the  spring, 

And  makes  the  troubled  waters  pure. 


THE   CONTRAST. 

OLD  Volpone,  famished  at  his  meagre  board, 
His  heirs  exultant  clutch  the  glittering  hoard : 
And  ingots,  heaped  'mid  groans  and  sighs 

and  tears, 
Vanish,  with  festal  shouts  and  jovial  cheers. 


THE  CONTRAST.  35 

Pandect,    that     shadow    pierced    by    every 

blast, 

'Mid  dusty  lore  evaporates,  at  last ; 
He  had  no  heart,  yet  bent  on  doing  good, 
To    found  a  college,   starves   his   flesh   and 

blood. 

Let   the   good   steward's   memory  claim  its 

praise, 
Whose  latest  action   crowned  his  generous 

days ; 
So    Kenyon's    death    reveals    life's    noblest 

end, 

Friendly  to  every  muse,  and  each  his  friend. 
Thoughtful   in   human    love,   his   wise    con 
trol 
Winged   all   his   liberal   gold   with   mercy's 

soul ; 
Hearts,  the  hard  world  had  wrung,  it  gave 

relief, 
Taught  grateful  smiles  to  blend  with  nature's 

grief, 
And  cheerful  hearths,  his  bounty  made  more 

bright, 
Glow  in   a  hundred  homes  with  household 

light. 


36  POEMS. 


INSCRIPTIONS, 

BY    A.  STROZZI, 

ON  TWO  STATUES  OF  MICHAEL  AXGELO. 

NIGHT. 

LA  Notte,  clie  tu  vedi  in  si  dolci  atti 
Dormire,  fu  da  un  angiolo  scolpita 
In  questo  sasso,  e  benche  dorme  ha  vita ; 

Destala,  se  non  credi,  e  parleratti. 

The  Night  thou  seest  in  such  sweetest  sleep 

Was  by  an  angel  sculptured  of  this  stone ; 
Yet  lives,  though  slumber  seems  her  sense  to 

steep ; 

Wake  her  —  she  speaks  —  and  all  thy  doubt 
is  gone. 

SLEEP. 

Grato  m'e  il  sonno,  e  piu  1'esser  di  sasso, 
Mentre  che  il  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura ; 
Non  udir,  non  veder  m'e  gran  ventura ; 

Pero  non  mi  destar,  deh !  parli  basso. 

Dear  sleep  to  me,  to  be  of  stone  more  dear, 
While  shame  and  wrong  my  hapless  land 
must  know ; 

Blest  is  my  fortune  not  to  see  nor  hear, 
Therefore,  awake  me  not,  and  oh,  speak  low! 


SONG.  37 


SONG. 

Sung  at  the  festival  of  the  Charitable  Mechanic  Association  of 
Boston. 

AIR  —  "  Yankee  Doodle." 

CROWN  the  board  with  festal  flowers, 

Fit  to  welcome  Beauty ; 
Care,  good-bye  !  the  flying  hours 

Summon  Mirth  to  duty. 
Chorus.  —  Joyful  bid  the  banquet  flow, 
Joyful  swell  the  greeting ; 
Hearts  with  hearts  responsive  glow, 
Soul  with  soul  is  meeting. 

Wit  should  flash  and  Music  sing, 

While  they  rule  the  table, 
Time  may  spread  his  drowsy  wing 

Catch  us,  if  he  's  able. 
Joyful,  etc. 

Crown  the  hour — let  manly  skill 

Boast  its  honest  story; 
Mind  and  hand  and  hardy  will 

Claim  the  prize  of  glory. 
Joyful,  etc. 

Conquering  Art,  thy  laurels  wear, 
Earth  and  Ocean  brightening, 


38  POEMS. 

And  through  subject  realms  of  Air 
Speed  the  storied  lightning. 
Joyful,  etc. 

Now  while  Genius  lends  his  wings, 
Mount  the  fiery  pinion  — 

Break  the  seal  of  Nature's  springs, 
Grasp  her  wide  dominion. 
Joyful,  etc. 

Yet,  to-night,  let  lofty  thought 

Bend  in  proud  devotion, 
Own  a  mightier  impulse  caught 

From  the  heart's  emotion. 
Joyful,  etc. 

Round  the  board  while  Beauty's  eyes 
Light  the  kindling  rapture, 

Art  must  yield,  and  Genius  lies 
Chained  in  willing  capture. 
Joyful,  etc. 


THE    SEA. 

THIS  is  that  great  wide  sea,  its  ocean-floor 
Founded,  of  old,  upon  resounding  caves, 

And  immemorial  rocks,  along  the  shore, 
Meet  the  rough  roll  of  immemorial  waves. 


THE  SEA.  39 

Hark  to  its  roar  !     To  this  the  rudest  howl 

Of  rended  forests  were  a  breathing  sigh  ; 

Earth    hath    no    utterance    like    this    angry 

growl, 

This   strong,   deep,   struggling,  fierce,  tu 
multuous  cry. 

Behold  its  aspect!     Of  itself  alone 

The  sole  created  image,  dread  and  vast, 

Its     furrowed     face     with     cruel     dimples 

strown, 
Tokens  of  future  storms  or  of  the  past. 

He  calls  us  to  him,  in  his  frolic  moods. 
And  on  his  swelling  breast  we  sport  the 

while, 
Or    with    his    curling    tresses    play,    where 

broods 
Of  the  sea-waves  the  innumerable  smile. 

Touched   by   the   summer   moon's   soft   ray 

serene, 

And  hushed  he  sleeps,  bathed  in  embrac 
ing  light; 

The  azure  level  floats,  a  silvery  screen 
Between  the  dark  sea-depths  and  clasping 
night. 


40  POEMS. 

Swept  by  the  flying  blast's  awakening  breath, 
He  leaps  to  life  with  one  convulsive  throe, 

His   gathering   breakers  shriek   their  shout 

of  death, 
And  deeps  above  reply  to  deeps  below. 

This  is  his  hour !  let  but  the  angry  gale 
Peal  its  defiant  trump,  —  his  face  grows 

dark,  — 

Out  breaks  wild  war  ;  down  sinks  the  shat 
tered  sail 

And  the  sad  surge  screams  o'er  man's  foun 
dered  bark. 

This  is  that  azure  sea  !     And  not  a  strand 
Of  Earth,  but   from  those   silent   depths 

and  lone, 
Summons  its  loved  and  lost,  —  and  the  green 

land 
To  its  perpetual  cry  utters  one  moan ! 


NAPOLEON   AND   HIS   SON. 

HE  died  not  in  the  battle-broil, 
Girt  by  the  noble  and  the  brave, 

The  warlike  chiefs  who  shared  his  spoil,  — 
The  kings  whose  realms  he  won  and  gave : 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  SON.  41 

No  monarch  held  his  sobbing  breath, 

By  that  imperial  bed  of  death ; 

And  save  some  stern-eyed  veterans  there  ; 

Who  struggling  checked  the  bitter  sigh, 
And  the  priest's  voice  in  muttered  prayer, 

They  left  him  all  alone  to  die  ! 

But  round  thy  princely  dying  bed, 

Fair  scion  of  so  rude  a  strain  ! 
How  many  a  fruitless  tear  was  shed, 

How  many  a  sob  repressed  in  vain  ! 
For  thou  art  dead !  a  summer  flower. 
That  withered  in  one  little  hour  ; 
Or  like  the  stately  sapling,  broke 

And  ruined  by  the  first  rude  blast, 
While  he  fell  like  the  gnarled  oak, 

Beneath  the  thousandth  storm  at  last. 

He  died  within  those  niggard  walls, 

A  nation's  shame,  — a  hero's  shrine,  — 
And  thou  within  the  palace  halls 

Of  royal  Hapsburg's  ancient  line  ; 
Pomp  chanted  forth  thy  funeral  wail,  — 
His  requiem  was  the  rising  gale! 
And  down  amid  their  kingly  brood 

They  laid  in  dust  thy  youthful  head,  — 
The  majesty  of  solitude 

Received  him  to  his  narrow  bed ! 


42  POEMS. 

And  loud  and  sad  the  sullen  bell 

Told  when  thy  soul  forsook  its  clay ; 
But  louder  was  the  pealing  knell, 

When  his  stern  spirit  burst  away 
O'er  his  lone  island  fierce  and  far 
Howled  out  the  elemental  war ; 
And  high  above, — beneath,  —  around, — 

The  headlong  storm  in  fury  poured, 
And  lashed  and  rent  the  reeling  ground, 

And  the  eternal  ocean  roared ! 

His  life  was  like  the  torrent's  force, 

Swift  and  resistless  in  its  sweep ; 
But  thine  had  flowed  a  gentler  course, 

With  human  virtues  full  and  deep. 
He  strode  from  Egypt's  pyramids 
To  Alpine  snows,  o'er  human  heads; 
He  rode  with  victory, — and  unfurled 

His  flaunting  flag  to  every  blast : 
He  trampled  on  a  prostrate  world, 

That  turned  and  trampled  him  at  last ! 

So  should  it  ever  be,  —  that  pride 
May  learn  how  low  its  loftiest  state  ; 

And  they  who  mourned  him,  justified 
Such  haughty  Empire's  humbling  fate : 

His  end  was  like  a  prophet-word 

To  king  and  Csesar,  —  crown  and  sword  ; 


ODE.  43 

But  with  his  offspring's  youthful  bier 

Hope,  love  and  joy  went  down  in  gloom  ; 

France  wept  the  sire — but  Europe's  tear 
Bewailed  the  son's  untimely  tomb ! 


ODE. 

Sung  at  the  Inauguration  of  the  Statue  of  Warren,  at  Charles- 
town,  June  17,  18")". 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ox  the  hill  of  battle  raise 
Anthems  of  immortal  praise  ; 
Honor  deck  the  hallowed  ground, 
Peace  eternal  vest  it  round  ! 
Vigil  here  shall  Freedom  keep, 
Airy  chants  perpetual  sweep, 
Voices  from  the  future  rolled, 
Echoes  of  the  soul  of  old. 

CHORUS. 
On  the  hill  of  battle  raise,  etc. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Solemn  swell,  triumphal  tune, 
Wafted  on  the  breath  of  June,  — 
Breath  that  shook  the  hills  afar, 
When  it  bore  the  shout  of  war ; 


44  POEMS. 

Through  the  veil  of  Age's  gloom 
Call  the  warrior  from  his  tomb ; 
His  be  all  a  hero's  fame, 
His  the  laurelled  martyr's  name  ! 

CHORUS. 
On  the  hill  of  battle  raise,  etc. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

On  a  grateful  people's  eyes 
Bid  the  imaged  marble  rise ; 
Freedom's  champion,  where  he  trod, 
Where  his  spirit  rose  to  God ! 
Sacred  as  his  fate  sublime 
Keep  his  fame,  consenting  Time, 
Noble  'mid  the  living  brave, 
Nobler  in  his  youthful  grave  ! 

CHORUS. 

On  the  hill  of  battle  raise 
Anthems  of  immortal  praise  ; 
Honor  deck  the  hallowed  ground, 
Peace  eternal  vest  it  round  ! 
On  the  hill  of  battle  raise 
Anthems  of  immortal  praise ! 


THE  EMPEROR'S  FUNERAL.  45 


THE   EMPEROR'S    FUNERAL. 

AND  rolled  in  light  the  silver  Seine, 

Through  festal  banks  its  flowery  wajr  — 
Shall  not  an  Empire's  choral  strain 

Hail  the  triumphal  day  ? 
He  comes  —  and  drooped  on  ocean's  foam, 

His  lilied  banner  waves  unfurled  — 
Comes,  from  his  sea-beat  island-home, 

The  victor  of  a  world  ! 
Falls,  far  away,  the  chanting  surge, 
Like  echoes  of  a  muttered  dirge. 

'Tis  he  who  gave  the  nations  law ; 

While  subject-kings  around  him  bowed : 
Nor  hushed,  as  now,  in  breathless  awe, 

Stood  the  gay  city's  crowd. 
Not  then  was  heard  this  minute-swell 

From  sullen  throats  of  iron  tone; 
Nor  then  Notre-Dame's  funereal  bell 

Gave  voice  to  such  a  moan ; 
Nor  rose  between  those  notes  that  flow, 
Like  airy  wailings,  full  of  wo. 

He  comes,  —  the  minion  child  of  Fame, 
Who  made  a  hundred  fields  his  own, 

And  sprang,  on  conquest's  wings  of  flame, 
To  his  delirious  throne  ! 


46  POEMS. 

Oh,  if  reluctant  Fate  had  given 

His  youthful  eye  some  prophet-view, 

'Mid  the  wild  Sections'1  crashing  levin, 
Of  fatal  Waterloo, 

Silent,  perchance,  these  spirit  tones 

Of  stifled  shrieks  and  muffled  groans ! 

'Tis  he,  the  man  of  Destiny  ! 

Whose  cohorts  princes  proudly  led, 
Where'er  he  bade  his  eagles  fly 

Above  the  slaughtered  dead ; 
To  the  same  heartless  purpose  true, 

That  claimed  earth's  empires  for  his  own, 
In  the  bright  halls  of  sweet  Saint  Cloud, 

On  Elba's  mimic  throne. 
What  greetings  these,  whose  sound  of  fear 
Breaks  the  dread  silence  of  his  bier ! 

From  sands  where  marble  music  sings 

A  song  to  morning's  orient  lids, 
And  lines  of  long-forgotten  kings 

Built  nameless  pyramids : 
From  cliffs,  where  but  the  Tyrol  horn 

Had  roused  the  freeman's  hunter-band, 
To  meads  whose  flowery  breath  is  borne 

Along  the  Caesars'  land,  — 
Come  shadowy  voices  on  the  gale 
Of  mountain-shout  and  sobbing  wail ! 


THE  EMPEROR'S  FUNERAL.  47 

Oh,  once  he  came,  on  triumph's  breath, 

From  soft  Italia' s  myrtle  bowers, 
And  once  from  fields  of  icy  death, 

By  Moscow's  blazing  towers  ; 
And  once  again,  from  Belgium's  plain, 

That  groaned  with  its  uncounted  dead, 
And  left  his  eagles,  with  its  slain, 

Trampled  and  slaughter-red : 
Now,  Beresina's  shrieking  waves 
Hail  Waterloo's  re-opening  graves ! 

He  comes  once  more  —  the  sullen  main 

Restores  him  from  his  lonely  cell, 
To  sleep  where  laves  the  silver  Seine 

That  France  he  loved  so  well. 
He  comes,  and  all  his  stormy  life, 

Whose  sun  was  quenched  in  clouds  and 

gloom, 
No  triumph  bought,  through  fiery  strife, 

Like  that  which  gilds  his  tomb  ! 
This  mockery  of  a  fickle  breath, 
Chanting  unmeaning  hymns  to  Death  ! 

Yet  where  his  pageant's  ancient  soul  ? 

Sons  of  St.  Louis,  wherefore  here  ? 
Far  other  tones  of  wo  should  roll 

Above  the  Emperor's  bier  ! 


48  POEMS. 

Oh,  where  Masse'na,  Lannes,  Dessaix  ? 

Through  battle's  cloud  each  flaming  star — 
He,  braver  than  the  bravest,  Ney,  — 

Thy  snow-white  plume,  Murat? 
I  see,  I  see  on  either  hand  — 
They  come,  they  weep,  a  shadowy  band ! 

Ah  !  "Invalides,"  thy  pomp  were  dull, 

And  strange,  if  such  were  wanting  there ; 
Thy  peopled  courts  are  not  so  full 

As  is  the  peopled  air ! 
From  sands  and  crags  and  whirling  streams, 

From  gory  plains  and  seas  of  storms, 
Rise,  like  the  thronging  shapes  of  dreams, 

Their  gashed  and  grisly  forms  : 
And  he,  'tis  he,  whose  icy  eye 
Glares  on  the  painted  pageantry  ! 

Oh,  could  he  call  one  moment  back 

The  flush  of  his  adventurous  youth ; 
Snatch  from  the  stain  of  glory's  track 

His  heart's  first  idol,  —  Truth ; 
Clasp  closer  still  the  Passion-flower 

He  spurned  from  his  unmanly  breast, — 
Away,  false  dreams  of  fruitless  power  ! 

And  earth  had  been  at  rest : 
Nor  hollow  lies,  nor  pomp's  cold  tear, 
Nor  man,  nor  fiend,  had  mocked  his  bier ! 


THE  WIND.  49 


THE    WIND. 

THE  Wind  has  voices  that  defy 

The  spirit's  utmost  scrutiny : 

We  shudder  at  its  sobbing  wail, 

And  shrink  when  howls  the  rolling  gale  ; 

And  even  its  softest  breath  is  heard, 

Like  some  half-muttered,  saddening  word 

Of  all  its  tones  there  is  no  voice 

That  bids  the  thrilling  heart  rejoice. 

The  sailor,  on  the  silent  seas, 
May  long  to  hail  the  freshening  breeze, 
The  blast  that  hurls  the  spattered  foam 
Will  waft  him  to  his  distant  home  ; 
Yet,  while  the  loosening  sail  he  flings, 
That  gives  his  floating  bird  its  wings, 
His  manly  breast  will  often  feel 
Some  strange,  dread  fancy  o'er  it  steal. 

When  crouched  beside  the  wintry  blaze, 
And  midnight  croons  its  wonted  lays  ; 
The  music  of  the  mingling  tune 
Now  rising  high  and  falling  soon  — 
The  wailing  and  complaining  tone 
Might  be  a  laugh,  though  more  a  moan,  — 
But  wild  or  sad,  or  high  or  low, 
It  ever  takes  a  note  of  wo. 


50  POEMS. 

I  'te  seen  it  stir  the  nested  rills, 

Amid  the  topmost  Crystal  hills ; 

Have  watched  it  drive  the  clashing  clouds, 

And  shriek  along  the  shivering  shrouds : 

Dread  !  strange  !  the  same  in  every  hour, 

Resistless,  formless,  unseen  power ! 

A  voice  that  gives  us  no  reply, 

A  sound  that  shakes,  we  know  not  why. 

I  never  hear  it  on  the  shore, 
Concerted  with  the  watery  roar, 
Or  sweeping  where  the  sullen  breeze 
Glides,  like  a  spirit,  through  the  trees ; 
Nor  listen  to  its  mustering  wail 
When  wintry  tempests  swell  the  gale, 
But  haunting  fancies,  dark  and  wild, 
Brood  like  the  dreams  that  daunt  a  child. 

Yet,  not  the  less,  my  battling  soul 
Springs  like  a  racer  to  its  goal, 
Can  wring  a  joy,  that  else  were  pain, 
When  singing  blasts  cry  o'er  the  main, 
Hear  music  in  the  mournful  tune 
That  softens  on  the  airs  of  June ; 
And  gather  from  the  fireside  tone 
A  sad,  sweet  language  all  its  own. 


ODE.  51 


ODE, 

In  Celebration  of  American  Independence,  City  of  Boston, 
July  5,  1869. 

'MiD  the  glory  when  morning  emblazons  the 

day, 
Scarce   remembered   the   shadows   of    night 

pass  away ; 

So  the  trials  our  fathers  made  famous,  of  old, 
To  their  children  come  down,  like  a  tale  that 

is  told. 

Yet,  immortally  written  on  History's  page, 
Shine  their  deeds,  bright   like  stars   in    the 

night  of  their  age  ; 
And  the  great  prize  of  freedom  their  victory 

won 
They  confirmed  by  their  wisdom  from  father 

to  son. 

Be  it  ours  to  renew  what  their  virtue  be 
queathed, 

Now  the  war-trump  is  silent,  the  falchion  is 
sheathed ; 

Nor  the  boon  they  bestowed,  bought  with 
blood  and  with  tears, 

See  perverted  and  lost  in  the  vortex  of  years. 


52  POEMS. 

Let   us  never  forget  how  the   kingdoms   of 

earth 
In  their  misery  welcomed  the  nation's  new 

birth, 
Saw  young  Liberty's  dawn-beam  sublimely 

arise, 
And  hailed  the  glad  mission  divine  from  the 

skies. 

And    the   statue    we    raise   to    our   father's 

great  name, 
Who  stands  foremost  and  best  in  the  annals 

of  fame, 
Is  our  pledge  to  the  world  that  our  country 

shall  be, 
As  it  was,  and  forever,  the  Land  of  the  Free ! 


HYMN. 

Sung  at  the  Cape  Cod  Celebration  of  Provincetown, 
Aug.  11,  1852. 

TUXE  —  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

FOREVER  blest  those  manly  hearts, 
The  high  and  generous  band, 

Who  claimed  hope's  final  refuge  here, 
And  hailed  the  wintry  strand  ; 


53 

Where  woman's  tried  and  matchless  faith 

Inspired  her  shrinking  form, 
And  young  and  old  the  desert  dared, 

In  darkness  and  in  storm. 

Like  Noah's  weary,  wandering  dove, 

Their  feet  had  found  no  rest, 
By  fears  and  foes  —  without,  within  — 

Distracted  and  distressed  ; 
Before  their  path  the  savage  lurked, 

In  ambush  for  his  prey, 
Behind  them  lone,  and  sad,  and  stern, 

The  trackless  ocean  lay. 

Along  the  broad  and  sterile  sands, 

Like  half-forgotten  dreams, 
Rose  thoughts  of  England's  blooming  meads, 

And  sweet  enchanted  streams  ; 
Yet  cheerful  still,  through  all  their  tears, 

The  dreary  waste  they  trod, 
For  here  was  freedom's  holy  law, 

And  here  was  trust  in  God  ! 

And  now,  where  once  their  constant  hearts 

The  joyful  hymn  could  raise, 
The  desert  voice  and  watery  roar 

But  mingling  with  their  praise, 


54  POEMS. 

A  thousand  snowy  sails  are  spread  — 

Their  children  dwell  at  rest, 
Old  Ocean's  spoils  their  tribute  make, 

And  sport  upon  his  breast. 

So  let  it  be,  while  circling  years 

Their  awful  round  complete, 
Peace  crown  the  strand  that  welcomed  home 

Our  fathers'  weary  feet ; 
But  be  their  day  of  gloom  and  dread 

Forgotten  never  more, 
When  high  in  more  than  human  hope 

They  trod  the  savage  shore. 


TO  A  RETIRED   VETERAN.1 

JACKSON  !   whose  name  to  future  times  will 

go. 

Known  by  rash  deeds  in  passion's  fiery  hour 

Conceived  and  wrought;    whence  many  mis 
chiefs  came 

That  mar  thy  fame, 

And  worked  thy  country  woe  ; 
Unkind  abuses  of  the  civic  power,  — 
For  which  thy  kitchen-cabinet,  oh  shame ! 

Perchance  were  most  to  blame, 


TO  A   RETIRED  VETERAN.  55 

Yet  mixed  with  good  of  no  mean  quality 
That  on  thy  scutcheon  shall  emblazoned  be,  — 
The  patriot  fire,  that  won  thy  country's  praise, 
And  a  whole  life  spent  in  the  public  cause ; 

From  boyhood's  generous  days 
To  the  old  age,  that  long  has  seemed  to  pause 
On  the  dim  shore  of  the  eternal  sea ! 
Count  that   thy  noblest   and   thy  proudest 
hour, 

Worthy  the  Roman  name, 

Or  more,  thy  country's  fame, 
When  'mid  the  clang  of  war,  and  the  hot  haste, 

And  victory's  rapturous  taste, 
A  nd  thy  firm  hand  fixed  on  resistless  power,  — 
The  conqueror's  sword  fell,  — and  the  down 
ward  steel 

Bowed  to  the  civic  wreath  ! 
On  high  the  Law,  that  guides  the  common 
weal  — 

TJie  soldier  stood  beneath  ! 
Supreme    o'er    crimson    conquest's    clarion 
breath 

A  voice  serene  and  still,  — 

THE  STATE'S  COLLECTED  WILL 
And  now  reposing  in  thy  Hermitage, 
Amid  such  contemplations,  we  would  trust, 
As  best  befit  thy  venerable  age, 

Crumbling  to  dust ; 


56  POEMS. 

I  pray  thee,  General,  do  not  mar  it  all ! 

Take  1113"  advice, — 

I  deprecate  thy  fall ! 

Not  honor  nice, 

Nor  thought  of  justice,  nor  a  true  respect 
For  thine  old  age,  nor  sense  of  cold  neglect 
Inspires  or  senators,  or  pot-house  fellows, 
Whose  zeal  grows  fiery  o'er  it  as  they  drink ; 
Their  care  for  thee  is  little,  I  suspect, 

'Tis  of  themselves  they  think, 
And  how  they  best  may  fix  their  party  collars  ; 

For  this  Tom  Benton  bellows, 

For  this  "  the  Captain  "  dips  his  pen 
in  ink ; 

Discord's  fell  apple  flung, 
Thy  wants  the  football  (Irish)  of  each  tongue  ; 

I  pray  thee,  scorn  the  dollars ! 
A  thousand  coins  make  a  poor  show  in  story 

Compared  with  deathless  glory. 

There 's  nothing  charms   me   more  than  to 

behold 

Declining  years  with  honest  comforts  strewed  ; 
Service  demands  the  people's  gratitude, 
And  shame  it  were  to  see  thy  hearthstone 

cold ! 

I  'm  sure  in  my  opinion,  humbly  given, 
And  not  requested  even, 


TO  A   RETIRED  VETERAN.  57 

It  were  a  handsome  thing,  if  Congress  would 

Assume  a  generous  mood,  — 
Handsome  for  them,  for   thee  and  us,  the 
nation  — 

Forget  thy  faults, 

Open  our  vaults, 

Think,  of  thy  years,  thy  service  and  thy  station 
And  give  thee  out  a  liberal  donation  ; 

But  not  as  a  remission  ; 

Be  this  the  fixed  condition ! 

Still  let  the  fine 

The  brightest  leaf  in  all  thy  chaplet  shine ; 
Let  our  sons'  sons   respect   thy  proud  sub 
mission, 

The  ancient  honor  of  the  citizen, 
The  sword,  high  thought,   obedient  to  the 
pen ! 

Still  be  "  the  Roman,"  - 
Regard  thyself  and  us,  and  suffer  no  man 
To  pluck  this  glory  from  thy  silvered  brow ; 
Let  party  malice  fret  her  hour,  and  rage, 
But  there,  on  sober  history's  solid  page, 
Still  let  this  stand,  that  best  allies  thy  name 
In  honest  virtue  with  thy  country's  fame  ! 


58  POEMS. 


HYMN. 

Supposed  to  have  been  sung  by  a  chorus  of  Youths  and  Maidens 
at  the  Funeral  of  Byron,  in  Greece.    1824. 

I. 

O  VIRGIN  daughters  of  the  budding  isles 
Which    crowning    purple    o'er    the   deep 

jiEgean, 
Whose   folded   foliage   met   those  first-born 

smiles 
Which  made  groves,  streams,  and  rocks, 

sing  lo  Peean ! 
Wail,  island    daughter,    him    whose    day   is 

done, 

And  tear  the  ivy-garland  from  your  head  — 
Apollo's  latest,  brightest  son 
Is  with  the  mighty  dead  ! 

II. 
Far-darter  of  the  never-failing  bow  ! 

Healer  of   nations !    where  was  then  thy 

power  ? 
Earth  called  for  thee,  and  why  wert  thou  so 

slow  ? 

Or,  couldst  thou  not  avert  the  hour  ? 
Come,  father  of  the  morning,  come  and  shake 
Adown  thy  flowing  ringlets'  golden  store  — 


HYMN.  59 

But  he  whom  thou  didst  love  to  wake 
Shall  see  thy  face  no  more  ! 

in. 

The  time  of  early  bloom  shall  come,  and  Spring 

Anew  shall  pour  her  honeydew-fed  flowers, 
And  oft  again  the  vintage  months  shall  bring 

Their  purple  gifts  ;  but  vernal  showers, 
Nor  summer  airs,  nor  vintage  suns  shall  hail 

His  unreturning  footstep  —  for  the  brave, 
The  young,  the  noble  whom  we  wail, 

Is  wedded  to  the  grave. 

IV. 

Freedom  !  so  richly  bought,  thou  shouldst  be 
sweet : 

Yet  would  that  he,  thy  victim,  had  but  died 
Floating  down  battle's  crimson  flood  to  meet 

Red  from  thy  strife  the  Stygian  tide  : 
How  gladly,   then,   in  glory's  flowers  we'd 
sheathe 

His  sword,  and  round  his  consecrated  brow 
We  'd  mingle  with  the  poet's  wreath 

One  deathless  laurel  bough! 

V. 

Sons  of  the  Greeks !  'mid  the  tumultuous  flame 
Of  the  fierce  shock  ye  shall  remember  well 


60  POEMS. 

Who  gave  his  life,  his  fortune  and  his  fame, 
Yea,  his  whole  hope,  to  break  the  accursed 
spell 

Which  ye  must  end;  but  o'er  his  silent  bier, 
Till  ancient  Freedom  smiling  hovers  nigh, 

Ye  may  not  waste  another  tear, 
Or  one  lamenting  sigh. 

vr. 

What  though  his  life  was  brief !  his  young 

career 

Was  run  in  glory  —  happy  that  his  last 
Act  was  the  best  and  noblest;  time  may  sear 
And  blight  the  nations  with  his  withering 

blast, 

But  has  no  power  to  rend  his  monument 
From  out  the  hearts  of  men ;   perchance 

still  more 

Happy,  that  he  so  early  went 
Down  to  the  gloomy  shore. 

VII. 

But  year  by  year  shall  Grecian  girls  renew, 
When    Spring    returns,   the   story  of  his 

woes, 
And   gather   memory's   sweetest   flowers  to 

strew, 
Violets  and  lilies  and  the  pale  primrose, 


REQUIEM.  61 

For  him  who  slumbers  in  the  orange  vale  ; 

And  often  shall  ^Etolian  sires  relate, 
Weeping,  his  melancholy  tale  — 

Their  poet-hero's  fate  ! 


REQUIEM 

FOB   ONE   SLAIN    IN   BATTLE.    1862. 

BKEATHE,  trumpets,  breathe, 

Slow  notes  of  saddest  wailing, 

Sadly  responsive  peal,  ye  muffled  drums ; 

Comrades,  with  downcast  eyes 

And  banners  trailing, 

Attend  him  home,  — 
The  youthful  warrior  comes. 

Upon  his  shield, 

Upon  his  shield  returning, 
Borne  from  the  field  of  honor 

Where  he  fell ; 
Glory  and  grief,  together  clasped 

In  mourning, 
Ills  fame,  his  fate 

With  sobs  exulting  tell. 

Wrap  round  his  breast 

The  flag  his  breast  defended,  — 


62  POEMS. 

His  country's  flag, 

In  battle's  front  unrolled ; 
For  it  he  died  — 

On  earth  forever  ended 
His  brave  young  life 

Lives  in  each  sacred  fold. 

With  proud  fond  tears, 

By  tinge  of  shame  untainted, 
Bear  him,  and  lay  him 

Gently  in  his  grave. 
Above  the  hero  write, 

The  young,  half-sainted,  — 
His  country  asked  his  life, 

His  life  he  gave  ! 


SONG   OF   WELCOME, 

At  a  Gathering  of  Natives  and  tlieir  Descendants  at  Kew- 
buryport. 

WELCOME  !  a  thousand  times  welcome  home  ! 
Joy  to  their  paths,  —  the  wanderers  come  ! 
They  pine  for  the  scenes  of  childhood's  mirth, 
Welcome  them  back  to  their  native  earth. 

In  busy  cities,  when  crowds  were  gone, 
Through  solemn  depths  of  the  forest  lone, 


SONG  OF  WELCOME.  63 

By  distant  plains,  and  where  Ocean  rolls, 
Homeward   dreams   have    come    over   their 
souls. 

And  now  they  gather,  to  meet  once  more 
The  kindred  form,  with  its  heart's  full  store, 
The  clasping  hand  and  the  speaking  eye, 
Beloved  so  well  in  the  years  gone  by. 

Oh,  some  will  hasten  with  ready  feet, 
Where  love  sits  smiling  and  home  is  sweet,  — 
And    others    have    passed    through    stormy 

waves, 
Only  to  look  on  their  fathers'  graves. 

Faithful  the  bosom,  whose  streams  run  back, 
From   the  world's   wild  sea,  through    child 
hood's  track, 

And  owns,  for  the  dearest  joy  of  earth, 
A  mother's  kiss,  by  a  father's  hearth. 

Welcome  to  all !  for  their  hearts  are  true,  — 
On  their  souls  are  drops  of  youth's  first  dew ; 
Joy,  oh,  joy  !  let  the  wanderers  come,  — 
Welcome  !    a  thousand  glad  welcomes  home  ! 


64  POEMS. 


LINES 

Against  the  Removal  of  "Washington's  Remains  from  Mount 
Vernon.    1838. 

AY,  leave  him  alone,  to  sleep  forever, 

Till   the    strong    archangel    calls   for    the 
dead, 

By  the  verdant  bank  of  that  rushing  river, 
Where  first  they  pillowed  his  mighty  head. 

Lowly  may  be  the  turf  that  covers 
The  sacred  grave  of  his  last  repose ; 

But  oh  !  there  's  a  glory  around  it  hovers, 
Broad  as  the   daybreak   and  bright  as  its 
close. 

Though  marble  columns  were  reared  above 
him, 

Temples  and  obelisks  rich  and  rare, 
Better  he  dwells  in  the  hearts  that  love  him, 

Cold  and  lone  as  he  slumbers  there. 

Why  should  we  gather  with  choral  numbers  ? 

Why    should    our     thronging     thousands 

come  ? 
Who  will  dare  to  invade  his  slumbers, 

Or  take  him  away  from  his  narrow  home  ? 


AT  SEA.  65 

Well  he  sleeps  in  the  majesty, 
Silent  and  stern,  of  awful  death ; 

And  he  who  visits  him  there  should  be 
Alone  with  God  and  his  own  hushed  breath ! 

Revel  and  pomp  would  profane  his  ashes, 
And  may  never  a  word  be  murmured  there, 

But  the  glorious  river's  that  by  him  dashes, 
And  the  pilgrim's  voice  in  his    heartfelt 
pcayeri 

But  leave  him  alone,  to  sleep  forever, 

Till  the  trump  that  awakens  the  countless 
dead, 

By  the  verdant  bank  of  that  rolling  river 
Where  first  they  pillowed  his  sacred  head. 


AT    SEA.2 

IT  was  off  the  cliffs  of  Scituate, 

In  old  Massachusetts  bay, 
We  took  a  stiff  northeaster, 

About  the  break  .of  day ; 
Lord !  how  it  howled  and  whistled 

On  the  ratlines  and  the  shrouds, 
As  the  icy  snow  dashed  pelting 

Through  the  scud  of  lowering  clouds. 


66  POEMS. 

Outspoke  bold  Captain  Tilden, 

"  She  fairly  drifts  astern  ; 
Against  this  gale  no  Boston 

Can  the  good  barque  make,  this  turn  ; 
To  beach  her  would  be  madness, 

Where  the  wild  surf  runs  so  high  — 
Under  our  lee  lies  Scituate, 

And  there  we  can  but  try." 

Then  "hard  up,"  cried  the  captain  — 

Like  a  bird  she  bore  away, 
The  blast  just  struck  her  quarter, 

And  she  flew  across  the  bay ; 
Before  us  broke  the  dreaded  bar, 

And  by  the  helmsman  stood 
Our  captain,  as  the  brave  barque  plunged 

Into  the  foam-tossed  flood. 

One  plunge  !  the  strong  wave  lifted  her  — 

Aghast  stood  all  the  crew ; 
Again  —  she  rose  upon  the  surge  — 

And  it  brought  her  safely  through ; 
Now,  God  bless  Scituate  harbor, 

And  be  blessed  for  evermore, 
Who  saved  us  from  the  sea's  cold  clasp, 

By  this  wild,  treacherous  shore. 


BURNING  OF  THE   TOWER.  67 


BURNING   OF   THE   TOWER. 

O  TOWER  of  London !     Not  the  lurid  flame 
Can    cleanse  the  plague  that   haunts  thy 

chambers  old, 
Nor  wreathing  smoke  in  volumed  blackness 

rolled, 

Blot  the  foul  record  of  thy  lasting  shame  ! 
Time  hallows  not  the  guilty ;  and  thy  name, 
What  shadowy  hosts  it  summons  from  the 

grave ! 
Sweet  babes  and  hoary  heads ;  the  pure, 

the  brave, 
King,   prelate,   patriot,    knight,    and    gentle 

dame ; 
Tears,  anguish,  torture,  blood ;  the  tyrant's 

art, 
The  martyr's  crown;    see  Raleigh,  Russell, 

rise, 

Sydney,  and  Bullen's  gospel-lighted  eyes,  — 
All   woman's   faith   and    man's   unshaken 

heart ; 
Call  them  not  shadows,  England's  perished 

dead,  — 

As  truths  immortal  they,  thou  but  the  shadow 
fled! 


68  POEMS. 


WINTER. 

PLEASANT  are  the  Summer  hours 
And  the  months  of  buds  and  flowers  • 
Spring  with  songs  and  softening  airs, 
Wreaths  that  mellow  Autumn  wears. 
Yet  we  know  a  sweeter  time 
Than  the  springtide's  early  prime, 
Than  the  Summer's  moonlight  blaze 
Or  the  Autumn's  golden  days ; 
And  though  still  we  dearly  prize 
Softer  airs  and  milder  skies, 
Let  our  heart  of  hearts  remember 
All  that  gladdens  dim  December. 


TO   THE   ENGLISH   FLAG.3 

ENGLAND  !  whence  came  each  glowing  hue 
That  tints  yon  flag  of  "  meteor  "  light  ? 

The  streaming  red,  the  deeper  blue, 

Crossed  with  the  moonbeam's  pearly  white. 

The  blood  and  braise,  —  the  blue  and  red 
Let  Asia's  groaning  millions  speak  ; 

The  white  —  it  tells  the  color  fled 
From  starving  Erin's  pallid  cheek  ! 


J1LOODY  BROOK.  69 


BLOODY   BROOK.4 

SEPT.  17,  1675. 

BY  Bloody  Brook,  at  break  of  day, 

When  glanced  the  morn  on  scene  more  fair  ? 
Rich  pearl-dew  on  the  greensward  lay, 

And  many  a  sweet  flower  flourished  there  ; 
The  holy  forest  all  around 

Was  hush  as  summer's  Sabbath  noon, 
And  through  its  arches  breathed  no  sound 

But  Bloody  Brook's  low  bubbling  tune. 

And  bright  with  every  gallant  hue 

The  old  trees  stretched  their  leafy  arms, 
While  o'er  them  all  the  morning  threw 

A  tenderer  glow  of  blushing  charms  ; 
Of  varying  gold  and  softest  green, 

Arid  crimson  like  the  summer  rose, 
And  deeper,  through  the  foliage  screen, 

The  mellow  purple  lives  and  glows. 

By  night,  alas,  that  fearful  night  - 
How  sinks  my  heart  the  tale  to  tell ! 

All,  all  was  gone  that  morning  light 
Saw  blooming  there  so  passing  well ; 

Those  clustered  flowers,  o'er  all  their  pride 
A  thousand  furious  steps  had  trod, 


70  POEMS. 

And  many  a  brave  heart's  ebbing  tide, 
For  pearly  dewdrops,  stained  the  sod. 

But  hark !  that  sound  you  scarce  may  hear, 

Amidst  the  dry  leaves  scattered  bare  — 
Is  it  the  wild  wolf's  step  of  fear, 

Or  fell  snake  stealing  to  his  lair  ? 
Ah  me,  it  is  the  wild  wolf's  heart, 

With  more  than  wolfish  vengeance  warm, — 
Ah  me,  it  is  the  serpent's  art 

Incarnate  in  the  human  form  ! 

And  now  'tis  still ;  no  sound  to  wake 

The  primal  forest's  awful  shade  ; 
And  breathless  lies  the  covert  brake, 

Where  many  an  ambushed  form  is  laid. 
I  see  the  red  man's  gleaming  eye,  — 

Yet  all  so  hushed,  the  gloom  profound, 
The  Summer  birds  flit  careless  by, 

And  mocking  nature  smiles  around. 

But  hark  again  !     A  merry  note 
Comes  pealing  up  the  quiet  stream, 

And  nearer  still  the  echoes  float,  — 

The  rolling  drum,  —  the  fife's  loud  scream  ! 

Yet  careless  was  their  march,  the  while, 
They  deem  no  danger  hovering  near, 


BLOODY  BROOK.  71 

And  oft  the  weary  way  beguile 

With  sportive  laugh  and  friendly  jeer. 

Pride  of  their  wild  romantic  land, 

In  the  first  flush  of  manhood's  day, 
It  was  a  bright  and  gallant  band, 

Which  trod  that  morn  the  venturous  way. 
Long  was  the  toilsome  march,  —  and  now 

They  pause  along  the  sheltered  tide, 
And  pluck  from  many  a  clustered  bough 

The  wild  fruits  by  the  pathway  side. 

As  gay  —  alas,  that  direful  yell ! 

So  loud, —  so  fierce, —  so  shrill, — so  clear, — 
As  if  the  very  fiends  of  hell, 

Burst   from    the    wild-wood    depths,  were 

here ! 
The  flame,  —  the  shot,  —  the  deadly  gasp,— 

The    shout,  —  the    shriek,  —  the    panting 

breath, — 
The  struggle  of  that  fearful  clasp, 

Where  man  meets  man  for  life  or  death  — 

All,  all  were  here  !     No  manlier  forms, 
Than    theirs,   the    young,   the    brave,   the 
fair,  — 

No  bolder  hearts  life's  current  warms, 
Than  those  that  poured  it  nobly  there  ! 


72  POEMS. 

Iii  the  dim  forest's  deep  recess, 

From  home,  from  friends,  from  succor  far, 
Fresh  from  home's  smile  and  dear  caress, 

They  stood  to  dare  the  unequal  war ! 

Ah,  gallant  few  !     No  generous  foe 

Had  met  you  by  that  crimsoned  tide  ; 
Vain  even  despair's  resistless  blow,  — 

As  brave  men  do  and  die,  they  died  I 
Yet,  not  in  vain,  —  a  cry,  that  shook 

The  inmost  forest's  desert  glooms, 
Swelled  o'er  their  graves,  until  it  broke 

In  storm  around  the  red  man's  homes! 

But  beating  hearts  far,  far  away, 

Broke  at  their  story's  fearful  truth, 
And  maidens  sweet,  for  many  a  day, 

Wept  o'er  the  vanished  dreams  of  youth ; 
By  the  blue  distant  ocean-tide, 

Wept  years,  long  years,  to  hear  them  tell, 
How  by  the  wild-wood's  lonely  side 

The  Flower  of  Essex  fell  ! 

And  the  sweet  nameless  stream,  whose  flood 
Grew  dark  with  battle's  ruddy  stain, 

Threw  off  the  tinge  of  murder's  blood, 
And  flowed  as  bright  and  pure  again  • 


LOVE.  73 


But  that  wild  day,  —  its  hour  of  fame  - 
Stamped  deep  its  history's  crimson  tears, 

Till  Bloody  Brook  became  a  name 
To  stir  the  hearts  of  after  years  ! 


LOVE. 

MEN  tell  us  love  is  only  vain, 

A  fleeting  shade,  an  empty  cheat, 

Though  down  from  Eden's  bowers,  't  is  plain, 
The  world  has  chased  that  fond  deceit. 

Some  nobler  hope  these  graybeards  name, 
As  worthiest  of  the  manly  heart, 

The  ruddy  gold  —  the  sounded  Fame  — 
The  glow  of  thought  and  wreath  of  Art. 

Methinks  the  sage  may  con  his  theme, 
Till  nature's  flickering  flame  expire, — 

Life  were,  indeed,  a  worthless  dream, 
If  only  these  could  wake  its  fire. 

For  Love,  still  sovereign  as  of  old, 
Makes  them  his  slaves  obedient  move, 

And  Fame  and  Art,  and  sullen  Gold, 
And  conquering  Genius,  bend  to  Love. 


74  POEMS. 


LOVE   AT   TWO-SCORE.* 

TRUE-HEARTED  wife,  come  sit  by  my  knee,  — 
Twenty  years  syne  were  you  sitting  here, 
Young  love's  light  may  have  danced  more  free, 
But  the  steadfast  flame  of  a  heart  for  me, 
Still  mine  own  at  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  hair  is  a  beautiful  thing,  — 

I  have  a  lock  of  a  hue  more  dear ; 
Black,  as  of  Darkness  his  blackest  wing, 
What  though  clipped  in  your  fresh  young 

spring,  — 
Still  I  prize  it  at  forty  year. 

*   LOVE  AT  TWO-SCORE. 
BY  WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY. 

Ho  !  pretty  page  with  dimpled  chin, 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 

All  your  aim  is  woman  to  win  — 

That  is  the  way  that  boys  begin  — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains  ; 

lulling  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer. 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window-panes  — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass  ; 

Grizzly  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  ; 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass. 

Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 


LOVE  AT  TWO-SCORE.  75 

Forty  times  over  has  Michaelmas  gone ; 

Forty  times  more  it  may  disappear,  — 
Let  but  the  heart's  true  pledge  be  won, 
Well  we  know  it  will  still  beat  on, 

True  at  twice  times  forty  year. 

Though    gray-bearded   fellows   may   all   de 
clare,  — 

Good  fellows  all,  who  swear  by  the  moon,  — • 
They  found  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Good  for  nothing,  to  lighten  their  care,  — 

These  fellows'  beards  grew  gray  too  soon, 

Such  bright  eyes  it  were  well  to  resist, 

They   only   spread    snares  for  such  good 
fellows'  fall ; 


Pledge  me  around,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray, 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow,  and  wearisome,  ere 
Ever  a  month  had  passed  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  even  a  month  was  gone. 

Gillian  's  dead,  heaven  rest  her  bier, 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  year  syne  ! 

Marian  's  married,  but  I  sit  here 

Alive  and  merry  at  forty  \car, 
Dipping  my  nose  in  Gascon  wine. 


76  POEMS. 

Their  own  eyes  must  have  been  in  a  mist, 
And  certain  it  is,  the  lips  they  kissed 

Could    never    have    been    worth    kissing 
at  all. 

Gillian,  poor  soul !  gave  me  little  hurt, 

That  fancy  of  mine,  more  than  twenty  years 

syne  ! 

As  for  Marian,  she  was  a  flirt,  — 
But  a  true  old  wife  clings  close  as  a  shirt, 
So  let 's  take  together  a  glass  of  old  wine. 


WARDS    IN   CHANCERY. 

[Falling  in  love  with  a  ward  in  Chancery  is  even  more  dangerous 
than  may  be  supposed.  A  Lancashire  swain  recently  did  so,  and 
when  the  lady  came  of  age,  was  iniquitous  enough  to  marry  her  ; 
and  Lord  Justice  Knight  Bruce  says  that  matrimony  was  com 
mitted  so  soon  after  the  young  lady's  coming  of  age  that  there 
must  have  been  courtship  in  her  minority  —  which  is  contempt  of 
court.  As  it  is  perilous  to  commit  flirtation  with  a  ward  in  Chan 
cery,  let  young  ladies  in  that  situation  wear  a  noli  me  ta»</i  re  dress 
—  a  costume  which  shall  warn  off  all  intruders  —  muslins  and 
moires  antiques  all  legibly  labelled,  "trespassers  will  be  prose 
cuted."  —  English  paper.] 

LOVE  in  old  times,  they  used  to  say, 
At  locksmiths  laughed  by  night  or  day, 
But  now  he  is  locked  out,  it  seems, 
From  wards  of  Chancery,  even  in  dreams; 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY.  77 

By  the  last  English  law  Report, 

To  court  them  is  contempt  of  Court ; 

Eyes,  ears  and  lips  must  all  be  schooled,  — 

Knight  Bruce,  Lord  Justice,  thus  has  ruled. 

Strange,  Judge  with  such  a  gallant  name 

Could  such  unknightly  judgment  frame  ! 

Henceforth,  nice  shades  of  kindred  crimes 

Law  must  define,  to  suit  the  times ; 

No  longer,  so  the  Court  will  charge, 

The  culprit,  Love,  must  run  at  large. 

Conformably  with  this  decree, 

All  juries  will  be  bound  to  see 

A  trespass  in  a  whisper  now, 

Assault  and  battery  in  a  bow, 

A  larceny  in  each  stolen  glance, 

And  rout  and  riot  in  a  dance. 

But  if  a  youth  against  the  peace, 

Soon  after  Chancery's  release, 

Dare  marry  maid  whilom  a  ward, 

All  these  offences  are  inferred. 

So  rules  the  Court  —  appeal  lies  thence 

To  the  full  Bench  of  Common  Sense  ; 

The  culprit  there  might  go  exempt, 

But  scarce  such  ruling,  from  "contempt." 


78  POEMS. 


A   GREEK   SONG.5 

SWALLOW-SONG   OF   RHODIAN    BOYS. 

[From  Athenseus.] 

HE  has  come  —  the   swallow  —  the  swallow 

comes  back ! 

His  breast  is  white  and  his  body  is  black  ; 
Just  as  black  are  his  waving  wings ; 
And  oh  !  what  loveliest  weather  he  brings ! 
Come,  can't  you  hand  out  and  send  this  way, 
From  a  house  so  rich,  a  fruit-cake,  let 's  say  ? 
Give  us  a  goblet  of  wine  to  sip  ; 
In  a  hamper  of  cheese  we  'd  be  glad  to  dip ; 
For  the  swallow  we'd  like  some  grains  of 

wheat, 
And  crumbs  of  bread  in  which  eggs  are  beat. 

Shall  we  go  away,  or  have  something  for  fun  ? 
If  you  give  it  or  not,  we  shall  soon  be  done ; 
Shall  we  carry  away  your  door,  or  its  top ; 
Or  off  with  the  good  dame  inside  shall  we 

pop? 

A  small  matter  that ;  we  can  carry  and  bring, 
And  whatever  you  give  is  to  us  a  great  thing. 
Open,  open  the  door  to  the  swallow,  we  pray  ; 
For  we're  not  old  vagrants,  but  children  at 

play. 


THE  RETURN.  79 


THE   RETURN.6 

•  etiam  victis  redit  in  prsecordia  virtus.  —  Virg. 


WELCOME  !  and  a  thousand  welcomes 

To  our  noble  Harvard  boys ! 
They  have  earned  all  home  can  give  them 

Of  love  and  home-like  joys  ; 
They  did  their  devoir  bravely, 

Against  Oxford's  gallant  crew, 
And  the  meed  of  noblest  oarsmen 

Is  their  own  and  proudly  due. 

Struggling  through  the  tortuous  river, 

Unwonted  to  their  oar, 
Scarcely  Oxford's  practised  boatmen 

Came  out  half  a  length  before  ; 
Splendid  was  the  manly  struggle, 

When  such  well-matched  champions  meet- 
There  was  glory  in  the  triumph, 

There  was  honor  in  defeat. 

In  the  old  Olympic  contests, 

With  his  olive  garland  crowned, 

The  victor's  wreath  was  held  a  pledge 
Of  States  in  friendship  bound  ; 

So  let  this  sign  of  holy  peace, 
By  Albion's  children  won, 


80  POEMS. 

Recall  to  every  generous  thought 
Columbia's  every  son. 

For,  in  no  unequal  conflict 

Strove  the  rivals  of  the  day, 
And  Oxford  from  the  Harvards 

Barely  snatched  the  palm  away ; 
Then  to  meet  them  on  their  native  shore, 

As  o'er  ocean's  wave  they  come, 
Hail  we  our  gallant  Harvard  lads 

With  a  thousand  welcomes  home  ! 


UPON    PUNCH'S    "TRIPPING  TIME."7 

BETTER  counsel  might  be  hit  on, 

Silly,  silly  Mr.  Punch  ! 
Than  you  give  the  "  tired  Briton  "  — 

Just  a  trip  to  take  a  lunch. 
Worn-out  scenes  you  spread  before  him, 

Trips  through  Europe,  here  and  there, 
Or  bid  Asian  climes  allure  him, 

Cairo,  Hong  Kong  —  Lord  knows  where. 

Don't  you  know  your  Briton  better  ? 

Things  like  these  won't  meet  his  case ; 
Close  behind  his  back,  a  sitter, 

Care,  will  with  him  ride  the  race. 


UPON  PUNCH'S  "TRIPPING   TIME."         81 

He  will  get  no  new  sensation,  — 

Of  ideas  —  no,  not  one  ! 
To  his  hand  each  old-world  nation 

Is  in  Murray's  handbook  done. 

Jogging,  plodding,  stumbling,  tumbling, 

Down  a  crater,  up  a  hill, 
Dining,  whining,  mumbling,  grumbling, 

At  his  fare  and  at  his  bill. 
Trip  no  more,  O  John,  to  Paris, 

Lisbon,  Berlin,  Homburg,  Pau, 
Places  where  the  cockney  tarries, 

Whose  geography  you  know. 

Trip,  John,  over  the  Atlantic, 

Roam  the  unknown  Yankee  land ; 
We  can  show  you  things  romantic, 

New  and  fresh  and  wild  and  grand  ; 
Unmatched  rivers,  prairie,  highland, 

Proud  Niagara's  thundering  fall, 
Caves  —  would  swallow  up  your  island - 

Come,  John,  you  shall  see  them  all. 

You  shall  see  our  men  and  cities, 
Pretty  girls  and  all  the  show,  — 

Really  't  is  a  thousand  pities, 
John,  you  should  so  little  know. 


82  POEMS. 

Be  assured,  you  '11  see  some  pumpkins, 
Rice-fields,  cotton-fields  and  corn, 

Farmers,  who  are  not  mere  bumpkins, 
"Niggers,"  merry  as  the  morn. 

"  Tired  Briton  !  "  for  a  fillip, 

These  things  will  your  business  do, 
Sherry-cobbler,  cocktail,  julep, 

You  shall  taste,  and  welcome,  too. 
Clearer  head  and  bosom  warmer 

You  '11  take  back  to  Britain's  isle, 
And,  O  John !  at  all  your  former 

Stupid  ignorance  you'll  smile. 


THE   MISSISSIPPI. 

THEY  call  me  "  The  Father  of  Waters  "  — 

For  a  hundred  rivers  flow, 
With  a  riotous  tide  leaping  out  from  my  side, 

And  they  named  me  long  ago. 
Ages  ere  children  of  eastern  realms 

Looked  on  my  rolling  flood, 
At  my  icy  rills  in  the  clefts  of  the  hills, 

Old  dusky  chiefs  of  the  forest  stood, 
And  tossed  their  feathery  helms, 

And  revealed  to  their  sons  and  daughters 

That  I  was  the  Father  of  Waters. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  83 

From  shores,  where  inland  seas  lie  deep, 

In  one  vast  ocean-chain, 
And  the  roots  of  the  Rocky  Hills,  I  leap  — 
Where  the  prairie  stretches  far  and  wide, 
And   sounds   to  the  buffalo's    thundering 

stride  ; 
And  the  mountains'  shadows,  from  pinnacle 

peaks, 

Fall  like  a  gloom  on  the  plain  — 
From  the  caves  of  the  hills  and  springs  of 

the  lakes 

My  meeting  fountains  ran, 
With    the    first    sweet   dawn    of   the   early 

prime  — 
I  was  born  when  the  world  began. 

And  onwards,  onwards,  forever  I  roll, 

Forever  to  reach  the  main  ; 
And  the  sweep  of  my  tide,  in  the  march  of  its 

pride, 

Turns  not  on  its  sources  again. 
But   grand    old   rivers,   the    chiefs   of  their 

race, 

Come  rushing  forever  to  own  my  sway, 
Like  hosts  to  the  field  on  the  battle-day  — 
They  sink    on    my  bosom,  and  in  my  em 
brace, 
Seek  the  infinite  sea  far  away. 


84  POEMS. 

But  my  dancing  ripple  laughs  and  sings 
To  the  currents  that  downward  flow, 

Till  the  drops  that  gushed  from  my  frozen 

springs 
Are  warmed  in  the  Gulf  below. 

So  I  girdle  an  empire,  and  bear  to  its  heart 

Wealth,  like  the  riches  of  dreams ; 
And  the  keels  are  afloat  for  their  burdened 
mart, 

On  the  flood  of  my  thousand  streams. 
Up  at  my  springs  droops  the  forest  old 

Over  my  dark  calm  stream  at  its  roots, 
Where  the  woodland  wild  birds  fearless  flew, 
Where  the  vanishing  Indian's  frail  canoe 

And  the  hunter's  shallop  shoots. 
Below,  below  are  my  myriad  ports 

And  the  ventures  of  every  sea, 
But  in  glory  or  gloom,  streaming  over  my 
wave 

Floats    the    star-blazoned    Flag    of    the 
Free. 

And  never  till  earth,  with  its  times  and  its 
tides, 

Crumbles  to  dust,  like  a  shrivelled  scroll, 
Shall  be  unclasped  my  watery  zone, 

That  encircles  a  nation's  soul. 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  85 

But  forever  till  my  great  course  is  run, 
God  will  keep  who  made  the  many  one. 
Vain  is  man's  folly,  his  frenzy  in  vain 
To  loosen  the  links  of  the  azure  chain ; 
But  to  East  and  West  and  South  and  North, 
Fed  by  the  dews  and  the  golden  rain, 
And  the  mountain   snows  that  melt  on   the 

plain, 

My  streams  as  of  old  go  forth  — 
And  every  rill  of  my  swelling  flood 
Leaps  to  its  fellow,  like  kindred  blood  ; 
Nor  ribs  of  rock,  nor  iron  band, 
Like    the   river    of   rivers,    could    clasp    the 

land. 

But  I  welcome  the  vision  that  gleams  sub 
lime 

Across  the  gloom  of  the  fleeting  time  — 
Grander  than  all  the  dreams  of  yore 
Spread  the  tents  of  the  people,  like  sands  on 

the  shore  ; 

The  course  of  their  Empire  but  now  begun, — 
The  mighty  many  joined  in  one. 
And  the  myriad  generations 
Of  their  undivided  nations, 
To  their  latest  sons  and  daughters, 
Shall  hail  me  "THE  FATHER  OF  WATEKS." 


86  POEMS. 

WOMAN'S    TEARS. 

SHE  wept;  as  softest  dews  that  come 
Upon  the  floweret's  vernal  bloom, 
One  moment's  space,  then  melt  away 
Beneath  the  morn  ng's  primal  ray, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  pure,  so  brief, 
So  lightly  passes  childhood's  grief. 

She  wept ;  as  falls  the  summer  shower 
On  bended  grass  and  glistening  flower, 
That  lift  their  heads  to  heaven  again 
The  brighter  for  the  gentle  rain  ; 
So  laughs  the  lip,  so  lights  the  eye 
As  girlhood's  fleeting  tears  pass  by, 

She  wept ;  as  dreary  rains  at  morn 
On  harvest  fields  of  gathered  corn, 
When  mirth  is  o'er  and  joy  is  done, 
And  hope  is  withered  up  and  gone  ; 
So  fell  the  tears  that  seemed  to  start 
From  woman's  crushed  and  bleeding  heart. 

She  wept  once  more ;  the  wintry  day 
Sweeps  through  bleak  branches  stript  and  gray, 
And  frozen  falls  the  stormy  rain 
From  boughs  that  may  not  bud  again,  — 
So  withered  Eld's  last  tears  are  shed, 
Lone,  helpless,  heartless,  hopeless,  dead! 


ANCIENT  LATIN  HYMN,  87 

ANCIENT   LATIN   HYMN. 

IN  DEDICATIONS  ECCLESI^E. 

Ccelestis  Urbs  Jerusalem, 

Beata  pacis  visio, 

Quse  celsa  de  viventibus 

Saxa  ad  astra  tolleris, 

Sponsaeque  ritu  cingeris 

Mille  Angelorum  millibus. 
O  sorte  nupta  prospera, 

Dotata  Patris  gloria 

Respersa  Sponsi  gratia, 

liegina  forniosissima, 

Christo  jugata  1'rincipi 

Coeli  corusca  civitas. 
Hie  inargaritis  emicant 

Patentque  cunctis  ostia ; 

Virtute  namque  praevia 

Mortalis  illuc  ducitur 

Ainore  Christi  percitus 

Tormenta  quisque  sustinet 
Scalpri  salubris  ictibus 

Et  tunsione  plurima, 

Fabri  polita  nialleo 

Hanc  saxa  molem  construunt, 

Aptisque  juncta  nexibus 

Locantur  in  fastigio. 
Decus  Parent!  debituin 

Sit  usquequaque  Altissimo, 

Natoque  Patris  unico 

Et  inclyto  Paraclyto, 

Cui  laus,  potestas,  gloria 

jEternasit  per  saecula. 

TRANSLATION. 

CELESTIAL  seat,  Jerusalem, 
Thy  peace  salutes  our  eyes ; 

Built  of  the  living  rock  thy  walls 
To  the  high  stars  arise; 


]  POEMS. 

Like  as  a  bridal  concourse  waits, 
Myriads  of  angels  guard  thy  gates. 

O  bride,  with  happiest  fortunes  blest, 

O  queen,  in  form  and  face, 
With  all  the  Father's  glory  dowered 

And  all  the  Bridegroom's  grace, 
To  Christ  a  spouse  hast  thou  been  given, 
O  glorious  city  come  from  heaven. 

The  pavements  of  thy  streets  with  pearl 

And  rarest  jewels  glow, 
Fit  for  the  feet  of  men  who  walked 

In  righteous  ways  below ; 
Who  by  the  love  of  Christ  assured, 
All  suffering  for  His  sake  endured. 

How  skilfully  the  builder  wrought, 
How  meet  the  stones  he  chose  ! 

Till,  every  joint  and  coign  complete, 
The  stately  structure  rose  ; 

All  polished  by  himself  alone, 

Up  from  the  deep  foundation  stone. 

Now,  to  the  Father,  God  Most  High, 

To  Christ,  his  only  Son, 
And  Holy  Ghost,  ineffable, 

Be  endless  honor  done  ; 
To  Him,  eternal  as  his  days, 
Be  all  the  glory,  power  and  praise. 


A    MARCH  CONCERT.  89 


A   MARCH   CONCERT. 

HARK  !  hark !     I  hear  them  sing  ! 
'T  is  the  carol  of  the  spring  : 
In  the  broad,  gray  branches  swinging, 
The  blackbirds,  —  they  are  singing; 
And  the  bounteous  air  rejoices 
In  the  chorus  of  their  voices; 
And  the  music  of  their  trills 
Nature's  soul  with  rapture  fills. 
Like  the  babble  of  the  brooks, 
Stealing  out  from  shady  nooks, 
Over  pebbles  as  they  pass, 
Or  among  the  tufted  grass,  — 
Louder,  clearer,  yet  as  sweet, 
Their  commingling  quavers  meet. 

AVhence,  oh,  whither  have  they  come? 
From  what  rugged,  wintry  home, 
That  thus  suddenly  they  bring 
These  glad  messages  of  spring  ? 
From  the  hollows  of  the  rocks 
Come  these  sable-coated  flocks  ? 
Or,  in  the  forest  deep 
Have  they  shivered  into  sleep, 
Where  the  fir  tree  or  the  pine 
Their  thick  boughs  intertwine  ? 


90  POEMS. 

Or  where,  under  jutting  eaves, 
Farmer's  barn  a  shelter  leaves  ? 
Or,  from  caverns  of  the  earth 
Have  they  sprung  to  their  new  birth  ? 

And  what  are  they  saying 
On  those  topmost  branches  swaying? 
Pouring  such  melodious  notes 
From  their  hundred  warbling  throats. 
"  How  is  it  with  you,  brother,  — 
With  this  sister  and  the  other  ? 
Have  you  managed  to  keep  warm 
Through  the  cold  night  and  the  storm  ? 
Chirrup,  chirrup  !  let  us  sing, 
•  To  salute  this  breath  of  spring  ; 
Hearts  and  voices  swelling  free 
At  the  tip-top  pitch  of  glee  ; 
And  in  one  great  burst  of  mirth 
Hail  the  newly-wakened  earth, 
And  the  sunshine  of  this  prime 
Of  the  coming  summer  time." 

But  I  fear  you  early  birds 

Are  too  early  for  such  words 

Of  congratulation  sweet, 

And,  alas,  must  make  retreat 

To  the  coverts  where  you  lay 

Through  the  long,  long  wintry  day ; 


A   TRIO.  91 

To  the  bushes,  caves  and  trees, 
And  such  haunts  of  little  ease. 
But  when  the  sharp  spring  blast 
Has  blown  its  fill,  at  last, 
Such  ecstatic  morning  strain 
We  will  hope  to  hear  again. 


A   TRIO. 

A  WHIPPOORWILL  sat  by  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
Perched  on  a  log  in  his  wonted  mood, 
And  ever  he  chanted  his  plaintive  strain, 
"  Whippoorwill  "  — over  and  over  again. 

Under  the  log  was  a  cricket's  nest, 

Who  chirruped  away  at  his  very  best ; 

In  a  pool  hard-by,  where  the  pond-lilies  flaunt, 

A  bloated  bull-frog  had  his  haunt. 

Just  as  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

And   the  breeze  to  the  leaves  bade  a  soft 

farewell, 

Chorused  in  song  with  the  whippoorwill 
Were  guttural  bull-frog  and  cricket  shrill. 

"  Fool,  fool !  "  growled  the  old  bull-frog, 
"  Sitting  there  on  your  hollow  log, 


92  POEMS. 

Making  night  hideous  with  your  cry, 
While  I  charm  all  the  passers-by." 

"  Cheer  up,  cheer  up,"  sang  the  cricket  small, 
"  You  break  my  heart  with  your  strange,  sad 

call ; 

I  shrink  myself  from  the  slightest  touch, 
And   why   should    you    want   whipping   so 

much?" 

"  Whippoorwill,"  cried  the  lonely  bird, 
But  flew  as  the  leaves  by  the  air  were  stirred, 
And  soon  he  repeated  his  mournful  lay, 
Softened  by  distance,  far  away. 

Sometimes,  in  moods  when  the  cricket's  cheer 
And  the  bull-frog's  mutter  offend  my  ear, 
Far  to  the  depths  of  the  forest  still 
I,  too,  would  fly,  like  the  whippoorwill. 


P  H  A  S  M  A. 

IF  the  big  boy  think  tops  he  spins, 
Or  the  dead  top  think  it  is  spun, 

They  know  not  where  the  maze  begins, 
Or  ends,  when  I  have  once  begun. 


PHASMA.  93 

Syntax  and  sense  from  me  are  far, 
Pease-pods  and  cobwebs  are  the  same ; 

To  me  old  tracks  of  giants  are 
Alike,  if  made  by  whole  or  lame. 

Sure-reckoners  must  their  ledgers  shut, 
When  I  the  balance-sheet  make  wrong, 

I  am  the  nut-cracker  and  nut, 

The  simpering  miss's  Orphic  song. 

Odd  men  with  beards  whose  senses  veer, 
Bloomers,  more  odd,  my  temples  cram, 

But  thou,  whose  mother-wit  is  clear, 
Find  me  the  Mab-struck  thing  I  am.  * 

*  BRAHMA  —  nv  R.  \v.  K. 

Ii<"  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 

Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 

1  keep,  ami  puss,  ami  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near, 

Shadow  and  sunshine  are  the  same, 
,  The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear 

And  one  to  me  arc  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  lly,  1  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt. 

And  1  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven  ; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  gods  ! 
Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


94  POEMS. 


THE   LOST   STEAMER— THE   ARCTIC. 

MAJESTIC  on  the  wave, 

Behold  the  ocean-empress  rides  ! 
The  sea  beneath,  her  willing  slave, 

His  crested  tides  divides. 
Dashed  from  her  breast  she  heaves 

Aloft  the  quelled  and  trampled  foam, 
The  glorious  track  behind  her  leaves,  — 

Speed  her,  ye  waters,  home. 

Ah,  gently,  cruel  main  ! 

The  freighted  treasures  gently  bear 
Voices  thou  hast  like  summer  rain, 

Or  virgin's  murmured  prayer. 
From  out  thy  cave,  O  sea ! 

Breathe  it,  in  music's  sweetest  sound, 
Toned  to  their  hearts'  true  harmony, 

The  glad,  the  homeward-bound. 

J°y  •  j°y  •  the  glooming  mist 

See,  how  she  cleaves  with  landward  bow ! 
Coyly  the  billows  lightly  pressed 

Leap  from  her  arrowy  prow. 
Joy  beams  in  woman's  eye, 

Joy  laughs  in  childhood's  mirth, 
And  manly  hearts  give  fond  reply, 

For  thee,  O  mother  earth. 


THE  LOST  STEAMER— THE  ARCTIC.       95 

Sovereign  o'er  vanquished  fear, 

The  lord  of  mortal  pride  and  power, 
Man  in  his  glorious  strength  is  here, 

This  is  his  triumph's  hour. 
Hark — hark  —  what  shock  of  dread 

Has  clutched  his  heart  and  blanched  his 

brow? 
Stern  as  the  bolt  of  fate  it  sped  — 

O  man  !  what  art  thou  now  ? 

Thou  saidst  "  a  king  "  thou  wast, 

On  ocean's  stormy  throne  ; 
Xow,  he  is  wild  and  fierce  and  vast, 

Thou  powerless  and  alone. 
Lo,  with  resistless  grasp 

This  wide,  relentless  sea 
Holds  like  a  toy  in  icy  clasp 

Thy  shattered  barque  and  thee. 

God  rules  upon  the  deep : 

There  he  alone  supreme  is  king  — 
The  wild,  wild  waves  that  o'er  thee  sweep, 

Perpetual  dirges  sing. 
Woe  !  woe  !  a  thousand  homes 

Their  cheerful  coming  wait  in  vain  ; 
While  far  and  wide  above  them  glooms 

The  desert  of  the  main. 


96  POEMS. 

TO   LYDIA. 

Ad  Lydiara.    Donee  gratus  eram  tibi,  etc.     HOB.  Lib.  3,  Ode  9. 

Hor.  Lydia,  while  I  had  your  love, 

And  no  other  youth  could  fling 
Arms  round  your  white  neck,  I  throve, 
Happier  than  the  Persian  King. 

Lyd.  While  you  owned  no  other  flame, 

Chloe  less  than  Lydia  dear, 
More,  I  felt,  in  all  my  fame, 
Than  our  Roman  Ilia's  peer. 

Hor.  Thracian  Chloe  rules  my  heart, 
Queen  of  all  melodious  song ; 
Willingly  with  life  I  'd  part, 
Her  dear  being  to  prolong. 

Lyd.  Calais,  the  youthful  Greek, 

Shares  my  love  with  mutual  joy  ; 
Double  death  the  fates  may  wreak 
On  me,  if  they  but  spare  the  boy. 

Hor.  What  if  the  old  love  insist 

Parted  souls  to  join  once  more  — 
Fair-haired  Chloe  be  dismissed, 
Lydia  find  an  open  door  ? 


MELPOMENE.  97 

Lyd.    Though  he  's  lovelier  than  a  star  — 
You  light  as  cork,  in  ire  more  high 
Than  Adrian  seas  —  gladlier  by  fur 
With  you  I  'd  live,  with  you  I  'd  die. 


MELPOMENE.8 

Quern  tu,  Melpomene,  semel,  etc.  —  Hon.,  Lib.  4,  Ode  3. 

ONCE  thine  eye  with  glance  benign 
On  a  youth  vouchsafes  to  shine, 
Never  he,  O  Muse,  will  claim 
Honors  in  the  Isthmian  game ; 
No  swift  steed  shall  drag  his  car 
Victor  in  the  race  ;  nor  war, 
For  proud  tyrants  beaten  down, 
Deck  him  with  the  laurel  crown. 
But  the  river's  gentle  flood, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  wood, 
Nature's  lore,  shall  make  him  strong, 
Noble  in  the  gift  of  song. 
Now  this  chief  of  cities,  Rome, 
Deigns  to  grant  me  genial  home, 
Live  I,  'mid  her  minstrel  youth, 
Less  assailed  by  envy's  tooth. 
Thou,  O  Muse,  whose  breath  alone 
Taught  the  golden  shell  its  tone, 


98  POEMS. 

And  mute  tilings  in  seas  that  live 
The  dying  swan's  sweet  note  could  give 
It  is  of  thy  grace  that  I 
Am  pointed  out  by  passers-by  ; 
Thou,  who  didst  with  soul  inspire 
Me,  master  of  the  Roman  lyre  ; 
That  to  breathe  and  please  is  mine, 
If  I  please,  the  boon  is  thine. 


THE   LAND   OF   JUDAH. 

AH,  once,  on  Judah's  parching  plains, 
How  flowed  in  light  those  living  rills  I 

And  early  dews  and  latter  rains 

Renewed  and  cheered  the  sacred  hills. 


Then  Sharon's  rose  her  matchless  flower 
Gave,  sweet  and  glorious,  to  the  wild, 

And  o'er  those  wastes,  in  beauty's  hour, 
The  lily  of  the  valley  smiled. 

By  pastures  green  and  waters  still 
Then  led  the  Lord  his  chosen  race, 

And  Judah's  children  loved  his  will, 
And  Israel  sought  his  father's  face. 


JEZREEL.  99 

Then  swelled  the  harp,  whose  chords  alone 
To  him,  the  minstrel-king,  were  given, 

And  Heaven,  descending,  lent  the  tone 
That  wings  the  spirit's  way  to  Heaven. 

But  shrunk  the  fount !  the  faded  rose 
Ungathered  hangs  its  drooping  head, 

And  David's  harp  immortal  glows, 
The  soul  of  Judah's  glories  fled. 

And  dried  the  dew  on  Jacob's  bough  ! 

His  tribes  but  houseless  pilgrims  roam, 
The  heathen  sits  on  Zion's  brow,  — 

While  they  nor  country  have,  nor  home. 

Sin  brought  the  curse  that  spreads  the  gloom 
Above  those  fruitful  fields  of  old, 

Till  God  shall  bid  the  desert  bloom, 
And  home  restore  his  wandering  fold. 


JEZREEL. 

i. 

BY  Esdraelon's  lonely  plain, 

Mount  Hermon's  nightly  dews  are  shed, 
And  Tabor  crowns  its  rock-browed  chain, 

And  Carmel  lifts  its  stately  head. 


100  POEMS. 

Along  these  hills  —  the  plain  —  the  vale 
What  peopled  cities  once  were  strown ! 

Where  now  but  ruin  tells  a  tale 

Scarce  to  the  passing  pilgrim  known. 

Land,  in  old  time  of  glorious  deeds, 

Where  nations  strove,  or  mingled  hands; 

But  now  some  wandering  Arab  leads 
His  "  desert-ship  "  across  the  sands. 

Not  far  aloof  stood  Sidon's  towers 
And  princely  Tyre's  imperial  mart  — 

Phoenicia's  pride,  that  lent  the  powers, 
Whence  woke  in  Greece  the  soul  of  Art. 

And  gold  and  purple  lit  their  halls ; 

From  coast  to  coast  their  galleys  flew 
The  cedar-beams  for  Zion's  walls 

Down  through  the  Midmost  Sea  they  drew. 

What  tribes  these  rocky  passes  trod, 
Ere,  looking  down  from  Horeb's  height, 

God's  prophet,  at  the  Mount  of  God, 
Drove  back  the  fierce  Amalekite ! 

But,  oh,  when  Israel's  sons,  at  length, 
Grew  false  to  faith  by  Heaven  revealed, 

No  Gideon's  sword  —  no  David's  strength 
Brought  victory  on  the  blood-drenched  field. 


JEZREEL.  101 

Through  the  long  line  of  Judah's  kings 
The  tide  of  deadly  war  rolled  on ; 

No  plain  like  this  such  record  brings 
Of  battles  lost  and  battles  won. 

ii. 

How  often  here  the  Idumean  brood, 

By  Israel  scattered,  to  their  fastness  tied ; 

But  near  this  plain  beyond  the  ancient  wood, 
At  Gilboa's  base,  laid  Saul  his  kingly  head. 

How  were  the  mighty  fallen  !  till  the  host 

Of  Syria  shrank  from  David's  royal  power ; 
Their  guarded  strongholds  his,  from  hill  to 

coast, 

And  peace,  in  arms  triumphant,  ruled  the 
hour. 

Years  flew ;  at  last  the  stern  Chaldean  came  ; 
Then  Persia's    might,  and  the  world-con 
quering  Greek ; 

Soon,  Rome's  proud  legions  played  war's  dire 
ful  game  — 

The  strong  man  trampling  on  the  frenzied 
weak. 

Across  this  plain  the  vengeful  Tartar  swept ; 
God's  people  fell  before  that  alien  band ; 


102  POEMS. 

Till  David's  sons  amid  their  ruins  wept, 
And  rage  and  rapine  scourged  the  guilty 
land. 

The  ages  rolled,  and  Christendom  awoke 
From    the    long    slumber    of    a    feverous 

dream ; 
"  God  and  the  cross  "  on  earth's  cold  silence 

broke ; 
"  Judea's  hills  shall  see  our  lances  gleam ! " 

There  streamed  the  lilied  oriflamme  of  Gaul, 
And   there    St.  George's   banner    proudly 

flew; 
And  heathen  tecbir-shout  and  atabal, 

The   Christian  trumpet-clang,  —  how   well 
they  knew  ! 

Richard,  St.  Louis  —  oft  a  royal  crest, 

'Mid  knightly  symbols,  graced  the  splendid 

throng ; 

The  sepulchre  of  Christ  their  holy  quest, 
Sworn  to  redeem  the  Right  and  quell  the 
Wrong. 

What  battles  raged,  while  generous  Saladin 
For  race   and  faith   rallied  the  desperate 
field ! 


JEZREEL.  103 

What  woes,  what  horrors !     Shall  these  Mos 
lems  win? 

Must    Europe's    long-despondent    armies 
yield? 

Thus,  ages  long,  the  desolating  sword 

Through  dismal  centuries  of  carnage  ran, 

And  left  behind,  at  last,  a  barbarous  horde, 
Where  glory,  strength,  and  ancient  grace 
began. 

Time  flies  apace ;  and  on  that  Syrian  plain 
Lo,  Gaul's  fierce  drum-beats  hill  and  valley 

shake ; 
On    Judah's    breeze    the    Red    Cross    floats 

again  — 

And,  oh,   the   scene,   could  but  the  dead 
awake ! 

And  for  the  ring  of  clashing  arms,  the  roar 
Of  pealing  cannon  through  the  champaign 

sweeps, 
Joins  the  loud  voice,  that  wakes  the  distant 

shore, 
And  dies  in  echoes  on  the  mountain  steeps. 

The  wasting  sword  and  the  devouring  spear 
Have   made  a  desert,  where,  in    nature's 
prime, 


104  POEMS. 

The  rose  and  lily  blossomed,  year  by  year, 
And  joyful  harvests  hailed  the  festal  time. 

And  well    "The    Battle-field   of    Nations" 

styled, 
Sleeps    Esdraelon,    long    with    slaughters 

red; 
For    there,    in    heaps    on    heaps,    together 

piled, 

Lie    deep    in     dust    what    tribes !    what 
nations  dead ! 


ROUGH    AND   READY. 

As  stars  that  melt  into  the  sky, 
Who  would  not  wish  like  him  to  die? 
'Mid  dews  of  dawn  their  paling  fires 
Blend  with  the  day,  as  night  retires ; 
So,  'mid  all  good  men's  honest  tears, 
Mingled  with  heaven  his  ripened  years. 

Ready,  through  all  life's  changing  mood, 
With  steadfast  heart  the  brave  man  stood, 
Ready,  'mid  battle's  fiery  shower, 
Ready,  in  fortune's  smiling  hour, 
And  when  the  last  dread  summons  came, 
Ready,  in  his  great  Captain's  name. 


AMU  RATH  IV.  105 

His  country's  flag  his  hearse  has  wreathed, 
His  country's  wail  the  requiem  breathed ; 
His  gallant  tars  have  borne  him  well 
"Mid  booming  gun  and  tolling  bell; 
Where  oft  the  good,  the  brave,  the  just 
Shall  weep  around  his  honored  dust. 


AMUR  ATI!    IV.9 

A.I).  1638. 

WHEN  Sultan  Amurath,  "the  cruel,"  led 
His  barbarous  hordes  o'er  Bagdad's  battered 

wall, 

And  of  its  prostrate  throngs  devoted  all 
To  slaughter  dire  by  battle's  vengeance  fed, 
A  Persian  youth,  unawed  by  scene  so  dread, 
Drew  from  his  harp  such  tones  so  sadly  sweet, 
The  conqueror  paused  at  each  melodious  beat, 
Till  from  his  soul  the  demon  fury  fled  ; 
His  fierce  command  recalled,  lie  now  bade 

spare 

Bagdad's  dejected  people  and  their  homes ; 
So  all  its  airy  minarets  and  domes 
Still  swelled  toward  heaven  and  echoed  calls 

to  prayer  ; 

Nor  could  this  victor  Music's  self  refuse 
That  grace  once  yielded  the  sad  Attic  mu .><>. 


106  POEMS. 


MUSIC. 

I  FLOAT  on  the  waves  of  music, 
They  bear  me  on  like  a  stream, 

To  siren  isles  of  the  purpling  sea, 
'Twixt  waking  and  a  dream ; 

Bathed  in  sweetness  and  in  beauty, 
Though  cold  and  dark  before, 
Wakes  the  spirit  sense,  once  more, 

Sees  the  amaranthine  flowers, 
Hears  the  murmurs  on  the  shore. 

The  present  fades,  like  a  vision, 

The  Past  and  Future  rise, 
My  soul  breathes  free  in  a  purer  air, 

And  sweet  tears  fill  my  eyes ; 
So  the  clear,  round  notes  drop,  falling ; 

Though  ever  so  closely  strung, 

On  their  golden  circlet  hung  — 
Yet  each  with  its  instant's  rapture 

From  those  magical  fingers  flung. 

The  monarch  grown  mad  in  his  anguish 
Revived  at  the  touch  of  the  lyre, 

And  hearts  that  are  drooping  and  languish 
One  sweep  of  the  chords  will  inspire ; 


THE  PILOT-YACHT  "HAZE,"  107 

Till  over  the  depths  of  the  ocean, 

And  down  from  the  brightening  skies, 
Comes  the  impulse  that  stirs  its  emotion, 

And  the  soul  overflows  in  the  eyes ; 
Thus,  chanted  in  hollows  of  mountains, 

Or  tuned  'mid  the  courtliest  throng, 
Like  the  natural  bubble  of  fountains, 

The  heart  beats  responsive  to  song. 


THE   PILOT-YACHT   "HAZE." 

OH,  won't  we  remember  the  "  Haze," 
And  our  run  down  the  jewel  of  bays  ? 

The  wind  fresh  and  free 

Swept  o'er  the  cool  sea; 
Far  behind  gleamed  the  city,  ablaze, 

With  rays 
Of  the  hottest  of  hot  summer  days. 

And  was  n't  she  jaunty  and  trig, 
Dressed  out  in  her  beautiful  rig  ? 

Her  bow  was  so  slim, 

Her  quarter  so  trim, 
And,  close  sheeted  home,  in  full  fig, 

AJig 
She  danced  on  the  billows  so  big. 


108  POEMS. 

The  parson,  and  doctors,  a  pair, 
With  other  choice  spirits  and  rare, 

A  crowd  of  gay  girls, 

The  breeze  in  their  curls, 
And  surely  all  witty  and  fair, 

Were  there ; 
And  one  with  whom  none  I  '11  compare. 

Then  merry  and  jovial  we  grew, 
As  swift  o'er  the  sea-waves  we  flew, 

Our  skipper  so  neat, 

Our  yacht  all  complete, 
And  oh,  for  the  time  with  that  crew 

Anew  — 
Clear  skies  and  the  bright  bounding  blue ! 


CALIGULA. 

Incitabatur  insomnia  maxime ;  neque  enim  plusquam  trihus 
nocturnis  horis  quiescebat ;  ac  non  liis  quidem  placida  quirtr.  -  <1 
pavida  miris  rerum  imaginibus  ;  ut  qui,  inter  ceteras,  Ft  lagi 
quandam  speciem  colloquentem  secum  videre  visus  sit. 

StJETOxius,  in  vlt.  Cali'j. 

THE  Pagan,  from  his  gorgeous  bed 

Of  wroughten  ivory  chased  with  gold, 

Bewildered  raised  his  restless  head, 

When  heart  and  life  were  growing  old ; 


CALIGULA.  109 

The  cruel  dream,  that  fired  his  youth 
And  led  the  Man,  a  faded  tiling; 

And  through  the  wreck  the  spectre,  Truth, 
Naked  by  life's  exhausted  spring. 

At  midnight,  through  his  echoing  halls 

The  purple  mockery  well  might  grope, 
And  hear  his  footsteps'  languid  falls 

Announce  despair,  but  never  hope ! 
Oh,  could  he  find,  what  never  came, 

Some  boundless  Lethe's  generous  flood, 
To  slake  his  thirst's  infuriate  flame 

And  wash  his  ocean-stain  of  blood  ! 

And  vassal  guards,  who  shrank  and  cowered 

To  meet  their  master's  haggard  eye, 
And  shook  as  if  a  demon  lowered, 

When  't  was  the  Caesar  tottered  by ! 
His  golden  state  —  his  circled  head  — 

The  pangs  that  wrung  the  stifling  groan  — 
What  slave  would  press  his  guilty  bed, 

To  call  the  Roman's  world  his  own? 

Oblivion  !  't  were  the  dearest  word, 
That  ever  blessed  prophetic  strain ; 

Be  once  those  cooling  waters  poured, 
The  Caesar  were  himself  again  ! 


110  POEMS. 

But  no,  dark  lord  of  dreaded  power, 

Whom  long  his  prophet-heart  has  warned, 

Oblivion  were  too  dear  a  dower, 

From  angry  gods  he  feared  and  scorned. 

The  Thracian,  on  that  marbled  floor, 

In  weary  slumbers,  sweet  and  deep, 
Roams  o'er  his  wastes,  a  slave  no  more  — 

What  dreams  disturb  an  Emperor's  sleep  ? 
Resistless  sway  is  all  his  own, 

His  own  the  globe's  supreme  command, 
And  thrills  through  earth's  remotest  zone 

The  menace  of  his  lifted  hand. 

Some  deep  impending  woe  must  shake 

The  heart  beneath  that  purple  pall ! 
Do  hosts  the  Roman  slumberers  wake, 

Goth,  Vandal,  Hun,  or  grisly  Gaul  ? 
No,  Rome  still  rests,  and  all  the  world 

Yet  pulsates  with  her  mighty  heart,  — 
Round  him  alone  the  shadow  furled, 

The  Caesar's  own  peculiar  part ! 

And  there  he  glides,  a  livid  thing, 
Pale,  glaring,  feeble,  fearing,  feared, 

Oh  say,  what  furies  round  him  clinu. 
This  new  Orestes,  phantom-scared  ! 


ACHILLES   OVER   THE   TRENCH.         Ill 

The  sea  —  the  sea !    wild,  deep  and  drear, 
Dim,  dread,  mysterious,  undefined, 

The  image  of  a  nameless  fear, 

A  waste,  void  horror  —  shakes  his  mind  ! 

Ah,  conscience  !  though  the  voiceless  doom 

No  Roman  seer  could  dare  to  tell, 
The  boding  of  that  unknown  gloom, 

The  fountain  of  thy  living  hell,  — 
"Twas  blood,  thou  guilty  creature,  blood 

The  coming  of  an  endless  dread, 
The  swell  of  that  relentless  flood  — 

The  purple  sea  thy  hands  had  shed ! 


ACHILLES    OVER   THE   TRENCH.10 

ILIAD,  xvii,  202.* 

So  saying,  Iris,  fleet  of  foot,  passed  on  ; 
Then,  dear  to  Jove,  arose  great  Peleus'  son ; 
Her  iBgis  o'er  his  shoulders  Pallas  spread 
And  wreathed  a  golden  cloud  around  his  head ; 
It  gleamed  as  when  some  island  city,  driven 
By  foes,  sends  up  a  vaporous  flame  to  heaven. 
All  day  the  battle  rages ;  but  when  night 
Displays  the  fiery  signal,  broadly  bright, 

*  The  unrhythmical  and  meagre  translation  from  Homer  by 
certain  poets  has  induced  another  translator  to  try  his  hand. 


112  POEMS. 

They  hope  the  warning  beacon  from  afar 
May  haste  their  neighboring  allies  to  the  War. 
While  from  his  head  the  glorious  blazon  shone, 
From  wall  to  trench  he  strode — but  stood 

alone  ; 
Xor  joined  the  Greeks — so  his  wise  mother 

bade  — 

But  shrilly  shouted ;  and  when  Pallas  made 
A  shout  more  dreadful,  far  away,  the  foe 
Shook  in  resistless  panic's  overthrow. 
For,  like  the  clear  voice  of  a  trumpet  blown 
By  fierce  besiegers  of  a  leaguered  town, 
So  rang  Achilles'  shout  across  the  plain ; 
And  when  the  Trojans  heard   its   clanging 

strain, 

Their  hearts  grew  faint ;  their  horses,  uncon 
trolled, 

The  chariots  backward,  in  their  terror,  rolled ; 
The  charioteers,  amazed,  beheld  with  dread 
The  flame  that  circled  round  Achilles'  head; 
That  flame  the  goddess  of  the  gleaming  eyes 
Herself  had  wreathed,  and  bade  it  kindling  rise. 
Thrice  from  the  dyke  he  shouted ;  backward 

reeled 

Thrice  the  affrighted  Trojans  from  the  field ; 
And  twelve  great  chiefs,  among  their  warrior 

train, 
'Mid  spears  and  chariots  fell,  ignobly  slain. 


ODE.  113 


ODE. 

Sung  at  the  First  Anniversary  of  the   "  Story  Association," 
composed  of  past  and  present  Members  of  the  Dane  Law  School 

of  Harvard  University. 

AIR  —  "  Auld  Lang  Sy>i<'." 

BENEATH  these  shades,  whose  hallowed  fame 

Such  generous  thoughts  revere  ! 
Within  these  halls,  of  many  a  name 

To  hope  und  memory  dear  ; 
Be  here,  by  meeting  hearts  and  hands, 

One  fresher  garland  twined, 
Round  sacred  Learning's  gathered  bands, 

To  mingle  mind  with  mind. 

The  sage's  lonely  lamp  might  shine, 

And  in  its  light  expire, 
And  burning  word  or  thought  divine 

Might  perish  in  their  fire  ; 
But  caught  from  kindling  soul  to  soul, 

The  flames  effulgent  spread, 
And  clasp  in  one  immortal  whole 

The  living  and -the  dead. 

These  brooding  cares,  that  round  us  rise, 

And  Life,  foredoomed  to  toils, 
Catch  half  a  grace  from  social  ties, 

And  live  in  genial  smiles ; 


114  POEMS. 

And  still  when  Wisdom  lifts  her  brow, 
Encrowned  with  flowery  wreaths, 

Then  gleams  her  spirit's  purest  glow  — 
Her  noblest  purpose  breathes. 

Within  the  bosom's  secret  shrine 

Immortal  visions  sleep ; 
Like  gems  that  light  the  sullen  mine, 

Or  pearls  that  strew  the  deep  ; 
But  touched  to  life  by  kindred  art, 

The  burning  accents  roll,  — 
Forums  and  Senates  feel  a  heart, 

And  Nations  own  a  soul! 


TOMB    OF   ALEXANDER. 

Alexander  raagni  tumulus 

Suffieit  huic  tumulus,  cui  non  sufficerat  orbis. 

Ennius. 

PARAPHRASED  AND  AMPLIFIED. 

ENOUGH  this  tomb 
For  him,  for  whom 
The  earthly  ball 
Seemed  quite  too  small. 
This  narrow  place 
Lends  ample  space 
To  whom  vast  space 
Seemed  narrow  place. 


THRENODY.  11") 


THRENODY. 

On  the  Sailing  of  the  Fleet  from  England  to  convey  the  Remains 
of  George  Peabody  to  the  United  States. 

O  SEA  !  if  ever  to  thy  silent  cave, 
Where  no  wild  tumults  rave, 
Pleased  with  the  affluent  freight 
Of  some  grand  ship  of  state, 

Upon  thy  bosom  borne  — 

Smoothing  the  wrinkles  on  thy  face  forlorn  ; 
Thou,  muffling  up  thy  mighty  form, 
Call'dst  home  the  children  of  the  storm  — 
So  as  when  Nelson  in  his  funeral  car, 
Victory,  from  Trafalgar, 

To  his  own  England  bound, 
Sought  an  immortal  grave  — 
Or  great  Napoleon,  from  his  sea-vext  isle, 
Reposed  upon  thy  wave  ; 

Mightier  within  his  shroud, 
Than  when,  with  wreaths  imperial  crowned, 

He  heard  the  plaudits  loud 
Of  France  and  Europe  hail  his  smile  ! 
Now,  calm  thy  heaving  breast 
To  a  supremer  rest ; 
Swiftly,  as  on  a  peaceful  tide 
Bid  the  grand  convoy  glide  ; 

The  fleet  of  nations,  bearing  home 

The  more  than  hero,  come 


116  POEMS. 

To  sleep  in  native  earth, 
The  village  of  his  birth ; 
More  honored  there,  than  hid 
In  nameless  pyramid 
Or  monumental  dome ! 

For,  not  like  warrior,  torn 

In  mortal  anguish  from  his  conquered  foes, 
Or  him,  triumphant  borne 

On  Victory's  wings  to  the  red  battle's  close  ; 
No  sanguine  flag  he  saw  unfurled, 
Yet  his  broad  conquest  was  the  world 
And  his  sweet  memory  has  a  part 
In  every  human  heart ; 
Like  that  abounding  flood, 
That  fills  all  Egypt  with  a  vital  blood ; 
Or  the  great  stream  that  takes  its  gladdening 

course 

From  Mississippi's  source ; 
His  coffers  he  unlocked,  with  prescience  sure, 

That  its  rich  treasures  might  fit  issue  find, 

To  lead  in  wisdom's  ways  the  struggling 

mind 
And  more,  to  bless  the  poor. 

What  though  the  regal  vault  flung  wide  its 

door, 

Beneath  the  grand  old  minster's  solemn 
nave, 


THRENODY.  117 

Where  chapelled  rest,  amidst  proud  crumbling 

things 

Upon  its  trodden  floor, 
England's  long  line  of  kings, 

Who  took,  but  never  gave  — 
For  him,  who,  as  a  sower  strews  his  grains, 
Bestowed  his  bounteous  gains, 
They  would  not  stir  beneath,  to  meet  him 

there, 
The    proud,   fierce,   cruel  spectres    of  the 

past ; 
And  his  own  gentler  spirit  fain  would  fare, 

Not  'mid  those  shadows  vast, 
But  where  the  elms  their  drooping  branches 

wave 
And  their  dead  leaves,  stirred  by  the  ruder 

blast, 

On  his  dead  bosom  cast; 
In  his  own  native  air ; 

In  his  more  welcome  grave ! 

But  when,  at  length,  the  dirge-toned  minute- 
gun 
No    longer    thunders    to    the    answering 

shore, 
And  the  low,  sad-draped  flags  the  morrow's 

sun 
Has  seen  uprisen  to  the  peak,  once  more ; 


118  POEMS. 

Not   with   the   funeral   pageant,   nor    the 

sighs, 
That  wring  men's  bosoms,  at  a  good  man's 

end, 
Shall  pass  his  memory.     Of  mankind  the 

friend, 

All  human  nature  mourns  him,  as  he  dies, 
Who  taught  his  kind  the    honest  way  to 

live  — 
Patient    to    gain,    that    he    might    freely 

give  — 

A  king  of  men  !  his  epitaph  shall  stand, 
Graven  on  every  heart  in  every  land  — 
To  sordid  souls  the  token  of  their  shame, 
With  nobler  spirits  a  perpetual  fame  ! 


THE    HERO. 

IN  passes  of  the  lonely  hills, 

Or  ridged  on  many  a  plain, 
What  land  so  poor  that  may  not  own 

Its  graves  of  heroes  slain  ! 
Nor  less  have  heroes  graced  the  earth, 

Chained  under  dungeon-bars, 
Or,  free  in  air-built  towers,  by  night, 

Conversing  with  the  stars. 


COURAGE.  119 

Glory  to  those  who  boldly  thought,  — 

To  those  who  fought  and  died  — 
And  battled,  to  their  ruin, 

For  the  right  but  losing  side  : 
All  earth  became  their  monument, 

When  they  to  death  were  given, 
And  the  great  sea's  perpetual  voice 

Chanted  their  dirge  to  Heaven. 

And  thus,  through  after  ages 

Of  truth's  eternal  strife, 
Their  names  are  fresh  as  fragrant  flowers 

Of  an  immortal  life  ; 
By  them  men's  minds  are  stirred  again, 

And  hearts  once  more  beat  warm, 
For  the  old  cause  to  fight  and  die, 

In  battle  and  in  storm. 


COURAGE. 

COME,   cheer   up,   we've   had   whining    and 

groaning  enough ; 
Timid    souls    let   each   cloud   of   disaster 

affright, 
But  the   hearts  that  are  made  of  the  true 

manly  stuff 

Will  be  firm  in  the  storm  that  in  sunshine 
were  bright. 


120  POEMS. 

And    though    fortune,    the    jade,    has    been 

playing  her  pranks  — 
As  she  always  will  play,  while  the  world 

runs  its  round  — 
We  may  laugh  in  her  face,  since  we  owe  her 

no  thanks, 

With  the  health  of  our  minds  left  in  bodies 
yet  sound. 

For  this  life  is  a  march  to  the  battle,  at  best, 
Some  will  droop  by  the  way,  some  move 

steadily  on ; 

But  who  ever  saw  gracing  the  falterer's  crest 
Any  bright  prize  of  honor  due  valor's  true 
son? 

If  the   blue  beaming  skies   on    the    seaman 

looked  down, 

As   his   bark   flew   with  yesterday's  pros 
perous  breeze, 
Shall  he  whimper  to-day,  though  the  heavens 

may  frown, 

And  the  lash  of  the  storm  wake  the  howl 
of  the  seas? 

No,  these  ups  and  these  downs  are  but  chances 

that  wait 

On  the  noblest  and  best,  like  the  fool  and 
the  knave, 


'LINES,  ETC.  121 

And  the  souls,  that  unconquered  look  boldly 

on  fate, 

Feel  the  keenest  and  first  every  trial  they 
brave. 

Then  away  with  despondence  —  let  cowardice 

yield, 
At  each  turn  of  the  tide,  to  a  breath  or  a 

blast, 
But  the  spirit  of  man,  beaten  down  on  the 

field, 

Start  afresh  for  the  fight,  undismayed  to 
the  last ! 


LINES 

OX  THE  DKOWNING  OF  A  LOVELY  GIRL  IN  THE  KENNEBEC. 

THE  voice  of  all  nature's  breathing  soul 
Melted  on  summer's  golden  noon, 

And  sweeter  the  music  grew  as  it  stole 
The  rippling  river's  silvery  tune. 

And  the  topmost  boughs  of  the  pines  were 
stirred 

With  a  whisper  toned  like  a  solemn  word. 

But  oh,  the  change  where  the  tide  was  deep, 

And  the  maiden  sank  to  her  fatal  sleep. 

Nature  still  smiles,  though  a  life  is  done, 

And  hearts  may  break,  but  the  stream  flows  on. 


122  POEMS. 

Roll  on,  as  thou  rollest  forever, 

Till   thy   tides   are   washed   back   to   the 

main, 
But  where  is  the  maiden,  oh,  river  ? 

Why  rolls  thy  swift  current  in  vain  ? 

Ah,  false  is  thy  blue  gleaming  bosom, 
And  pale  grow  the  flowers  by  its  side  ; 

In  her  loveliness  perished  the  blossom, 
And  faded  the  light  on  thy  tide. 

But  cease,  oh,  sad  chorus  of  waters, 
To  respond  to  the  wind-spirit's  wail, 

And  your  locks,  oh,  ye  sea-maidens'  daugh 
ters! 
Wring  no  more  as  ye  moan  to  the  gale. 

Though  the  wild  heart  of  Ocean  rejoices, 
As  his  waves  thunder  on  to  the  shore, 

Yet  the  clash  of  their  terrible  voices 
She  shall  hear  never  more,  never  more. 

On  her  purity  dawns  the  Immortal, 

The  gates  of  the  spirit  unroll, 
And  a  welcoming  smile  from  the  portal 

Seals  Eternity's  light  on  her  soul. 


PATRIOTISM.  123 


PATRIOTISM. 

WHEN  wild  through  summer's  evening  sky 

Roll  lurid  clouds  by  storm-winds  driven, 
And  peal  to  peal  gives  dread  reply, 

As  flames  the  angry  bolt  of  heaven, 
Those  upper  glories,  all  the  while, 

Depth  beyond  depth,  in  light  afar, 
Serenely  shine,  serenely  smile, 

The  sweet  blue  skies  and  every  star. 

And  thus,  when,  foul  and  fierce  and  loud, 

Revolted  faction's  servile  band 
Wakes  to  wild  hate  the  wavering  crowd, 

And  maddens  round  a  generous  land,  — 
Above  that  storm  the  patriot  soul, 

In  light  immortal  keeps  his  way; 
His  truth  like  living  stars  that  roll, 

And  clear  in  honor  as  the  day. 

The  weak  may  blench,  the  false  may  fall, 

And  paltry  spirits  welcome  shame, 
His  heart,  unchanged  in  field  or  hall, 

Owns  but  his  country's  sacred  name ; 
And,  prompt  to  meet  her  high  behest, 

The  impulse  of  his  soul  replies; 
He  folds  her  colors  on  his  breast, 

And  with  her  lives,  or  for  her  dies. 


124  POEMS. 


AN   AUTUMN   IDYL. 

SWEET  Bedford  Springs  !  goal  for  a  heart's 

long  quest 

Of  sacred  peace,  where  toil  nor  care  in 
trudes, 

So  near,  yet  far  from  all  the  world's  unrest, 
How  calm  thy  gentle  slopes  and  whispering 
woods ! 

Hail,  holy  silence !  save  the  murmuring  bee, 
And  never-tiring  cricket's  cadence  shrill, 

Or  whistled,  morn  and  eve,  from  his  low  tree, 
The  plaint  of  some  sad  hermit  whippoor- 
will. 

Summer  is  ended ;  Autumn's  genial  glow, 
Less  fervid,   fills  these  bright  September 
days ; 

Her  browner  tints  meek  Nature  spreads  1  >el  ow, 
Above,  the  woods  with  ruddy  glories  blaze. 

Now  waves  the  golden-rod  its  gorgeous  plume, 
And  myriad  asters  gleam  in  purple  pride, 

In  clustered  groups  imperial  gentians  bloom, 
And  dearest  daisies  deck  the  meadow's 
side. 


AN  AUTUMN  IDYL.  125 

Not  the  fresh  rose  in  kingly  robes  arrayed, 
Nor  proudest  lily,  queen  of  gardens  fair, 
To  win    us    back   from    nature's   ways  who 

strayed, 

Can  with  these  children  of  the  fields  com 
pare. 

Down  the  deep  forest-path,  where  cheerful  day 
Breaks  through  the  shadows  with  a  check 
ered  light, 

Stretched  out,  I  watch  the  squirrel's  lithe 
some  play, 

Or  hear   the    startled    quail's   resounding 
flight. 

But  lo,  the  mountains !  the  horizon's  verge 
Eve's  golden  hues  with  sapphire  mingled 

share, 
And  their  dim  summits    through    the    haze 

emerge, 
Like  far  transparent  islands  hung  in  air. 

Kearsarge,  Monadnock  and  Wachusett,  names 
By   the    old   tribes    on    these    grand  hills 

bestowed  — 

This  living  test  they  left,  that  nature's  claims 
Touched  them   to    thought   and   in    their 
bosoms  glowed. 


126  PO£MS. 

They  stand  forever ;  still  their  titles  meet 
That   name   our   hills   and   streams   "  the 

savage  "  gave  ; 

Forever  they  his  epitaph  repeat  — 
"  You  took  our  all  and  gave  us  but  a  grave." 

And  yet,   not  here    should   painful    themes 

invade, 

Where  morning  ushers  in  no  worldly  jars, 
Deep   noontide   welcomes   to    the    soothing 

shade, 
And  night  renews  the  majesty  of  stars. 

For  here  all  nature's  soul,  with  soft  appeal, 

In  free  communion  with  man's  living  soul, 
Inspires  each  sight  and  sound  to  make  him 

feel 

How  good,  how  great  creation's  wondrous 
whole ! 

And  here,  with  thee  to  share  and  make  my 

j°y. 

Such   thoughts   alike   on   thy   dear   heart 

impressed, 
Fain    would   I   find,    when   gathering   cares 

annoy, 
What  earth  can   grant   of  heaven's    high 

promise  —  Rest. 


THE  MESSAGE.  127 


THE   MESSAGE. 

IN  the  mountain  glen,  where  the  dream-land 

lies, 
Close,  close  to  the  Heavens  for  which  we 

long  — 

Where  the  soul  looks  out  from  its  spirit-eyes, 
And  thought  is  free  as  the  heart  of  song  — 

Where  the  pine-tree  sways  in  a  misty  shroud, 
And  the  wind-voice  speaks  like  a  parting 

sigh, 

And  the  cliff,  that  kisses  the  bending  cloud, 
Seems  just  on  the  verge  of  the  neighbor- 
sky — 

Oh,  there,  while    they  watch   for   a   spirit's 

birth, 
That  is  struggling  away  from  the  earth's 

control, 

They  send  to  the  loved  and  lost  of  earth, 
Some  whispered  word  by  the  passing  soul. 

Oh,  simple  truth  of  a  changeless  love ! 

Oh,  trusting  faith  of  the  mountain  land! 
I,  too,  would  send  to  the  realms  above 

A  message  for  one  of  their  starry  band. 


128  POEMS. 

And   tell    her,    O    soul    of    the    homeward- 
bound  ! 
How  our  footsteps  are  haunting  that  lowl}- 

bed, 
Where  we  laid  to  her  rest  in   the   flowery 

ground 
Our  loved  and  our  lovely  —  the  early  dead ! 

And  say,  at  the  flush  of  the  season's  prime, 
Or  when  hearths  are  light  in  the  evening 

blaze, 
How  we  pine  for  the  heart  of  our  summer 

time, 

And   the    smile    that   could   gladden    our 
wintry  days ! 

Oh,  tell  her  we  weep,  through   the   lonely 

years, 
For  the  dearest  and  sweetest  that  love  ever 

won  — 
And   though   hope,   like  a  rainbow,  gleams 

over  our  tears, 

Yet  we  weep,  oh,  we  weep  —  for  we  still 
love  on ! 


EASTER  FLOWERS.  129 


'ESUEPE    HA'NTA    VE'PEIS.      x.j.l. 

Fragment  of  Sappho. 

O  HESPERUS  !  thou  bringest  all  things  best ; 
Wine  for  the  festal  hour ;  the  uddered  goat, 
With  her  rich  store  to  soothe  the  thirsty 

throat ; 

And  home  the  child  bring'st  to  its  mother's 
breast. 


EASTER   FLOWERS. 

From  the  Rev.  W.  Henry  Brooks,  D.D.,  of  St.  Andrews,  Hanover. 

OH!  cluster  of  bright  roses! 

From  the  temple  of  the  Lord ! 
Your  fragrant  breath  discloses 

Eden's  incense  half  restored. 

Like  a  glow  of  sacred  pleasure 
They  came  to  my  sick  room, 

And  were  welcomed  like  a  treasure, 
With  their  sweetness  and  their  bloom. 

Now,  blessings  on  the  Pastor 
Who  sent  the  Easter  flowers, 

In  the  spirit  of  his  Master, 
To  cheer  my  lonely  hours. 


130  POEMS. 

And  the  dearest  hand  that  brought  it, 
So  long  linked  fast  in  mine, 

With  an  added  charm  inwrought  it, 
That  seemed  almost  divine. 


THE   FADED   FLOWER. 

WHEN  spring's  green  breast  once  more 
Welcomed  sweet  skies  and  showers, 

Our  sweetest  flower  to  earth  we  bore 
And  laid  among  the  flowers. 

Gently,  in  virgin  mould, 

Where  sleep  day's  sunniest  hours, 
We  placed  —  and  closed  the  verdant  fold 

Our  flower  among  the  flowers. 

Just  touched,  each  tender  shoot 
Feels  life's  enkindling  powers,  — 

She  wins  at  once  immortal  fruit, 
Our  flower  among  the  flowers. 

There  but  the  snowdrop's  bell 

Peeped  pure  'mid  sheltering  bowers, 

Emblem  of  her  beloved  so  well, 
Our  flower  among  the  flowers. 


HUNGARIAN  WINE.  131 

What  tears  forlorn  we  shed  ! 

What  anguish  endless  lowers  -. 
Oh,  why,  why  art  thou  with  the  dead  ? 

Young  girl  among  the  flowers. 

Farewell,  farewell !  bid  grief 

Weep  life  away  —  and  ours 
May  hope  at  last  that  sad  relief  - 

Fair  girl  among  the  flowers  ! 


HUNGARIAN   WINE. 

'SAY'ST  thou,  the  land  of  the  wine 
Is  fed  by  the  blushing  Rhine? 

Where  the  flower-crowned  river 

Flows  bounteous  forever, 

And  life  from  the  heart  of  the  old  soul- 
giver 
Is  drunk  by  the  roots  of  the  vine  ? 

Ah,  brighter  the  topaz  beam, 
And  richer  the  ruby  gleam, 

Amid  bubbles  that  play 

In  the  beaker's  broad  ray, 

Where  the  blue-flashing  tides  float  in  music 

away 
Down  the  Danube's  rolling  stream. 


132  POEMS. 

And  along  those  plains  so  grand, 
True  heart  and  welcome  hand 

Greet  maidens  bright ;  — 

And,  in  love  or  fight, 

The  wine  they  quaff  has  the  strength  and 

the  light 
Of  the  brave  Hungarian  land. 

Then,  hail  to  the  juice  divine 
Of  the  old  Hungarian  wine ! 

For,  what  are  life 's  ills, 

On  the  lip  as  it  trills?  — 

This  blood   of  the  grape  that  trailed  on 

the  hills 
Of  romance,  love,  war  and  the  vine ! 


EPIGRAM. 

"  A  CHURCH  without  a  bishop  "  seems 
To  Doctor  This  a  thing  of  dreams ; 
To  Doctor  That,  his  reverend  brother, 
It 's  just  as  good  as  any  other. 

But  while  each  shepherd,  waxing  bold 
On  merits  of  his  several  fold, 
Comes  to  decisive  blows  and  knocks, 
The  wolf  devours  their  several  flocks ! 


DANAE.  133 


D  A  N  A  E.* 

WHEN  upon  that  well-wrought  chest 
Fiercely  beat  the  howling  wind, 

Danae,  tossed  on  ocean's  breast, 

Owned  the  dread  that  filled  her  mind. 

Bathed  in  tears,  her  arms  she  flung 

Round  her  Perseus  as  he  slept ; 
"  Child,"  she  cried,  "  what  fears  have  wrung 
My  hopeless  bosom  while  I  wept ! 

"With  no  thought  of  ill  dismayed, 
Slumbering  in  this  dreary  room, 
Thou  to  sweetest  rest  art  laid, 
All  unconscious  of  the  gloom. 

"In  little  purple  tunic  drest, 

Safe  thou  sleepest,  free  from  care ; 
No  wild  winds  thy  sleep  molest, 
Nor  waters  stir  thy  clustering  hair. 

"  Yet,  if  thou,  my  precious  one  ! 
Felt  my  tide  of  sorrow  flow, 
Not  all  silent  would  my  son 
Hear  his  mother's  wail  of  woe. 

*  Simonides. 


134  POEMS. 

"Still  sleep  on,  my  boy,  I  cry, 

So  rest  thou,  tumultuous  deep ! 
And  the  unmeasured  cares  that  lie 
On  my  heart,  let  them,  too,  sleep ! 

"Father  Jove,  I  ask  of  thee 

Vain  their  evil  counsels  make ; 
Though  the  prayer  presumptuous  be, 
Right  my  wrongs  for  Perseus'  sake !  " 


GOOD   FAITH. 

FAIR  lady,  whom  a  bounteous  nature 
Has  clothed  with  all  her  liberal  graces, 

And  stamped  on  every  glowing  feature, 
Charms  stolen  from  half-a-hundred  faces ; 

Dowered  thus  by  right  divine  of  Beauty, 
Shared  with  the  lilies  and  the  roses, 

How  can  I  fail  to  yield  as  duty 

What  your  supreme  behest  imposes! 

You  bid  me  write  —  my  gray-goose  quill 
Uplifts,  at  once,  its  airy  feather,  — 

And  words,  obedient  at  your  will, 
Arrange  their  serried  ranks  together. 


WEBSTER.  135 

Yet  what  to  write  !     Ay,  there's  the  thing ! 

To  say  too  little  were  but  treason, 
And  thoughts  let  loose  on  buoyant  wing 

Might  seem  transcendent  over  reason. 

P^nough  !  Be  this  the  minstrel's  art, 

When  youth  and  beauty  claim  devotion ; 

And  shame  befall  the  recreant  heart 
Where  these  no  longer  rouse  emotion ! 

Then,  lady,  take  the  promised  strain, 
Pledge  of  one  poet's  honor  spoken, 

And  learn,  whate'er  be  false  or  vain, 
One  plighted  word  is  never  broken. 


WEBSTER. 

MARSHFIELD  !  where  glory  long  has  hovered, 
To  welcome  many  a  generous  guest, 

Jlo\v  sad  that  ruin  should  have  covered 
A  great  man's  home  —  his  place  of  rest ! 

Yet  there  still  shines  the  star  of  glory, 
In  memory  of  that  honored  head, 

And  future  time  shall  know  his  story, 

That   crowned   him   living  —  crowns   him 
dead ! 


136  POEITS. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

SOUND, — sound  the  notes  of  joy, 
Sweet  pipe  and  tabret,  ring  ! 
And  every  trembling  string 

Let  the  high  harp  employ  ; 

Give  the  heart's  voice  to  words,  — 
Bid  them  responsive  roll, 
"While  song's  enraptured  soul 

Leaps  glowing  from  the  golden  chords. 

Exulting  be  the  strains, 

When,  fresh  from  mingling  hearts, 

Life's  dearest  impulse  starts 
And  Love  immortal  reigns. 
Beauty,  with  manhood's  pride  ! 

Now,  the  full  concert  bring,  — 

Now,  hymeneals  sing,  — 
Welcome,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

He  comes,  the  bridegroom  comes  ! 

Behold,  what  generous  grace, 

And  how  his  manly  face 
The  kindled  soul  illumes  ! 
Fill  high,  — -let  wine-cups  flow, — 

Wish  all  his  life's  bright  stream 

Glad  as  their  sparkling  beam, 
And  years  and  honors  wreathe  his  brow. 


THE  HAY-MAKERS.  137 

And  she,  the  blushing  bride  ! 

Of  all  the  lovely  band, 

Lead  her  with  gentle  hand, 
The  loveliest  to  his  side. 
Ah,  from  earth's  fairest  bower, 

What,  that  most  rich  is  there, 

Can  grace  her  mazy  hair ! 
Joy,  joy  to  her,  —  Love's  sweetest  flower! 

Now  she,  his  own,  —  his  own  ;  — 

And  he  her  heart,  — her  life,  — 

By  the  dear  name  of  "  wife," 
And  "  husband's  "  household  tone  ! 
Home's  old  unfading  blaze 

Grant  them,  O  power  divine, 

True  as  their  truth  to  shine, 
And  endless  blessing  crown  their  days ! 


THE   HAY-MAKERS. 

DOWN  on  the  Merrimac  river, 

While  the  autumn  grass  is  green, 
Oh,  there  the  "jolly  hay-men" 

In  their  "gundalows  "  are  seen; 
Floating  down,  as  ebbs  the  current, 

And  the  dawn  leads  on  the  day, 
With  their  scythes  and  rakes  all  ready 

To  gather  in  the  hay. 


138  POEMS. 

The  good  wife,  up  the  river, 

Has  made  the  oven  hot, 
And  with  plenty  of  pandowdy 

Has  filled  her  earthen  pot. 
Their  long  oars  sweep  them  onward 

As  the  ripples  round  them  play, 
And  the  jolly  hay-men  drift  along 

To  make  the  meadow  hay. 


At  the  bank  side  then  they  moor  her, 

Where  the  sluggish  waters  run, 
By  the  shallow  creek's  low  edges, 

Beneath  the  fervid  sun  — 
And  all  day  long  the  toilers 

Mow  their  swaths,  and  day  by  day, 
You  see  their  scythe-blades  Hashing, 

At  the  cutting  of  the  hay. 


When  the  meadow-birds  are  flying, 

Then  down  go  scythe  and  rake, 
And  right  and  left  their  scattering  shots 

The  sleeping  echoes  wake  — 
For  silent  spreads  the  broad  expanse, 

To  the  sand-hills  far  away. 
And  thus  they  change  their  work  for  sport, 

At  making  of  the  hay. 


THE  STORM.  139 

When  the  gundalows  are  loaded  — 

Gunwales  to  the  water's  brim  — 
With  their  little  squaresails  set  a-top, 

Up  the  river  how  they  swim  ! 
At  home,  beside  the  fire,  by  night, 

While  the  children  round  them  play, 
What  tales  the  jolly  hay-men  tell, 

Of  getting  in  the  hay  ! 


THE   STORM. 

UP  from  mirk  midnight  to  the  dawn, 
Waking,  I  heard  the  wild  wind  rout 

Sweep  through  the  elms  that  skirt  the  lawn, 
With  sobbing  wail  and  gusty  shout. 

Those  patriarchs  of  their  race,  whose  leaves 
Scarce  murmured  as  the  zephyrs  passed, 

Swayed  till  their  branches  smote  the  eaves, 
And  groaned  in  concert  with  the  blast. 

Dim  broke  the  morn  along  the  crags, 
That  eastward  loom  above  the  sea ; 

And  vapory  forms,  like  weird  hags, 
In  long  procession  sail  a-lee. 


140  POEMS. 

Now,  in  one  sheeted  flood  it  rains ; 

But  the  slant  wind's  impetuous  force 
Flings  it  in  streams  against  the  panes, 

That  tremble  with  its  headlong  course. 

Anon  the  sun  looked  through  the  rift, 

But  pallid  as  his  sister  moon, 
Chasing  on  high  the  flying  drift, 

When  glows  through  heaven  night's  sober 
noon. 

At  length,  uprising  toward  his  height, 
Majestic  moves  the  orb  of  day ; 

The  parting  storm  attests  his  might, 
And  peaceful  nature  owns  his  sway. 

Pierced  through  by  that  all-cheering  beam, 
Lie  mountain,  vale,  and  forest  aisle ; 

Gone  the  long  night's  tempestuous  dream, 
And  earth  and  heaven  serenely  smile. 

And  all  is  still,  —  save  from  afar 
That  one  low  murmur,  evermore, 

Where  wind  and  wave  wage  war  on  war, 
And  the  long  roll  beats  on  the  shore. 


DILLY.  141 


DILLY. 

FEBRUARY  26,  1872. 

THEE  on  the  bosom  of  maternal  earth, 
Ashes  to  kindred  ashes,  dust  to  dust, 
Mournful  we  laid,  but  with  immortal 

trust ; 
For   thou  wast  sweet   as   sweet  the  gentle 

birth 

Of  summer  morn  upon  the  dusky  night ; 
And   thus    thy   gentle    spirit    passed    the 

flight 

Of  the  world's  confine  to  celestial  bowers. 
Spring's  opened  heart  reviving,  soon  her 

hand 
Will    spread    luxuriant    o'er   the    smiling 

land 

The  rich  embroidery  of  her  fragile  flowers, 
Not  one  more  lovely,  or  more  frail  than 

thou ; 
They  come,  they  pass,  symbols  of  life  and 

death ; 
But  all  the  earthly  breathed  in  thy 

breath, 
And  all  thy  mortal  is  immortal  now. 


142  POEMS. 


SUB   ROSA. 

THE  god  of  Love,  sweet  Rose  ! 
Thee  lovely  saw,  and  chose 

An  emblem  of  his  power ; 
From  out  thy  perfumed  fold 
His  breath  of  fragrance  rolled, 

And   his   own   tint  imbued  the  blushing 
flower. 

At  eve,  the  desert  child, 
Lonely  upon  the  wild, 

Trembled,  bedropt  with  dew ; 
He  plucked  it  in  its  tears, 
All  sweeter  for  its  fears, 

And  to  the  god  of  silence  panting  flew. 

"  Be  this,"  he  cried,  "  my  sign,  — 
Take  it,  —  this  hour  is  mine, 

The  hush,  the  glow,  the  shade, — 
Make  thou  this  matchless  flower 
Symbol  in  hall  or  bower, 

Of  vows  and   spoken   thoughts,  but   un- 
betrayed." 

Since  then,  when  cups  went  round, 
Or,  long  in  silence  bound, 
To  love  hearts  yielded  pride, 


"WATER  INDEED  IS  BEST."  143 

Under  the  rose  uphung, 

Words  that,  half  whispered,  clung 

To  lips,  or  uttered,  with  the  moment  died. 

Thus,  round  the  rose  was  wreathed, 
By  Love  and  Silence  breathed, 

That  old,  unbroken  spell ; 
From  such  sweet  fountain  flows 
The  legend  of  the  Rose, 

And  thus,  Sub  Rosa  means,  You  must  not 
tell. 


"APISTON     ME'N 

Pindar. 

"  YES,  water  is  best,"  said  old  Pindar, 

And  surely  a  poet  should  know 
What  most  will  stir  up  or  will  hinder 

The  Muse's  inspiriting  flow. 
If  he,  of  all  lyrists  sublimest, 

By  ages  on  ages  confessed, 
Pronounces  the  pure  lymph  the  primest 

Of  liquors,  'tis  surely  the  best. 

But  water,  too,  needs  moderation, 
Both  inward  and  outward,  we  know 

For  the  nature  of  man's  corporation 
Demands  not  a  check,  but  a  glow. 

*  "  Water  indeed  is  best." 


144  POEMS. 

Thus  that  hero  of  old,  Alexander, 
Jumped  into  a  river  too  cold, 

And  it  cured  all  his  fancies  to  wander, 
For  dead  men  no  longer  are  bold. 

So,  when  heated,  to  swallow  ice-water, 

The  best  of  physicians  declare, 
Is  only  a  form  of  self-slaughter, 

And  like  other  potions,  needs  care. 
Hence,  either  with  wine  or  with  whiskey, 

The  temperate  use  is  the  rule ; 
Upon  each  it  is  bad  to  get  frisky, 

And  bad  to  take  water  too  cool. 

The  soundest  divines  will  taste  brandy, 

And  ladies  are  fond  of  a  sip  ; 
Be  sure,  if  the  liquor  is  handy, 

It  will  find  its  own  way  to  the  lip. 
Take  care,  for  old  "  Experto  crede  " 

But  counsels  the  moderate  use ; 
Too  much  wine  does  but  make  one  unsteady, 

And  water  too  much  plays  the  deuce. 


THE  COMET.  145 

THE    COMET. 

1858. 

YON  car  of  fire,  though  veiled  by  day, 
Along  that  field  of  gleaming  blue, 

When  twilight  folded  earth  in  gray, 
A  world-wide  wonder,  flew. 

Duly  in  turn  each  orb  of  light 

From  out  the  darkening  concave  broke  ; 
Eve's  glowing  herald  swam  to  sight, 

And  every  star  awoke. 

The  Lyre  re-strung  its  burning  chords, 
Streamed  from  the  Cross  its  earliest  ray,11 

Then  rose  Altair,  more  sweet  than  words 
On  music's  soul  could  say. 

They,  from  old  time  in  course  the  same, 

Familiar  set,  familiar  rise ; 
But  what  art  thou,  wild,  lovely  flame 

Across  the  startled  skies  ? 

Mysterious  yet,  as  when  it  burst 

Through  the  vast  void  of  nature  hurled, 

And  shook  their  shrinking  hearts,  at  first, 
The  Fathers  of  the  world. 


146  POEMS. 

No  curious  sage  the  scroll  unseals, — • 
Vain  quest  to  baffled  science  given, — 

Its  orbit  ages,  there  it  wheels, 
The  miracle  of  Heaven. 

In  nature's  plan  thy  sphere  unknown, 
Save  that  no  sphere  His  order  mars, 

Whose  law  could  guide  thy  path  alone 
In  realms  beyond  the  stars. 

God's  minister  !     We  know  no  more 
Of  thee,  thy  frame,  thy  mission  still, 

Than  he  who  watched  thy  flight,  of  yore, 
On  the  Chaldean  hill. 

Yet  thus,  transcendent  from  thy  blaze 
Beams  light  to  pierce  this  mortal  clod , 

Scarcely  a  fool  on  thee  could  gaze, 
And  say  —  "  There  is  no  God." 


LEGEND   OF   THE   ROSE. 

IN  the  holy  field  of  Bethlehem, 
Now  many  an  age  ago, 

'T  is  said  the  people  gathered 
Around  a  scaffold  low. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  ROSE.  147 

And  piled  against  this  scaffold 

Fagots  and  billets  stood, 
Of  cedar,  palm,  and  cypress, 

And  the  wild  olive-wood. 

On  it  a  white-robed  maiden  — 

Her  little  feet  were  bare, 
But  covering  all  her  shoulders 

Streamed  her  golden  flood  of  hair. 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven, 
Her  hands  her  bosom  prest  — 

Her  sweet,  sad  face  and  saintly  mien 
Her  soul's  clear  truth  attest. 

Yet  she,  of  fairest  maids  most  fair, 

Must  perish  in  her  bloom, 
For  false  and  cruel  judges 

Had  foully  wrought  her  doom. 

Forth,  with  lit  torch,  at  their  behest, 

A  haggard  menial  stept, 
While  the  young  men  sternly  murmured, 

And  the  shrinking  damsels  wept. 

"  O  Jesus  !  who  with  purest  feet 
Once  trod  this  sacred  ground, 

Protect  my  helpless  innocence, 
My  wicked  foes  confound  ! " 


148  POEMS. 

Touched  was  the  pile  —  and  all  ablaze 

The  crackling  fagots  flame, 
But  never  near  her  little  feet, 

Or  her  pure  body  came. 

Oh,  what  is  this !     Down  sinks  the  fire, 
Unharmed  the  maiden  stands, 

'Mid  a  bower  of  loveliest  roses, 
Instead  of  blazing  brands ! 

The  Rose,  of  sweetest  flowers  most  sweet. 
Thus  sprang,  the  legend  said  — 

The  unkindled  branches  bore  the  White, 
The  burning  boughs  the  Red. 


McCLELLAN.12 

WHEN  rose  the  gloomy  cloud  of  war, 

And  brother  rushed  at  brother, 
And  hands  so  late  in  friendship  clasped 

Drew  swords  against  each  other  ; 
Our  country  hailed  with  pride  and  joy 

And  every  tongue  was  telling, 
The  leader's  name  whose  star  had  dawned  — 

The  young  and  brave  McClellan. 


McCLELLAN.  149 

But  wild  and  fiercer  grew  the  strife, 

And  armies,  sternly  meeting, 
Stood  face  to  face  on  mutual  ground, 

And  thundered  hostile  greeting. 
Then  brighter  grew  his  glorious  name, 

And  patriot  voices  swelling 
Renewed  the  soldiers'  shout  and  cried 

"  Our  hero  is  McClellan." 

But  envy  aims  at  all  that 's  bright, 

And  strikes  the  noblest  quarry  — 
So,  who  but  he,  our  gallant  chief, 

Should  dogs  of  party  worr}7"  ? 
But  never  half  so  pure  and  true, 

His  fame  enshrined  is  dwelling, 
As  when  his  foes  their  futile  shafts 

Shoot  harmless  at  McClellan. 

Above  the  weak  and  factious  throng 

Whom  transient  power  debases, 
His  trials  show  him  nobler  still, 

And  every  wrong  but  graces. 
Then  here  's  to  him,  the  just  and  brave, 

Who,  all  his  foemen  quelling, 
May  yet  redeem  his  country's  cause  — 

Our  hope  and  shield,  McClellan. 


150  POEMS. 


AT   WAR. 

THE  hour  is  near  —  the  battle  set  — 
And  freedom  is  the  holy  prize  ; 

What  manly  heart  can  e'er  forget 
Beneath  the  tyrant's  eyes, 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  cruel  hand  — 

How  tearful  drooped  the  withering  land? 

To  live  were  death,  if  such  were  life,  — 
Of  weary  thought  and  wringing  pain  ; 

But  hope  renews  us  for  the  strife  — 
We  burst  in  arms  the  chain  ; 

Ignoble  peace  the  sordid  soul 

Makes  more  a  slave,  as  ages  roll. 

Freedom  alone  is  life  ;  to  die; 

Were  life  so  bought  upon  the  field  — 
Freedom  from  earth's  insensate  lie, 

That  bids  its  noblest  yield 
To  coward  guilt,  to  worshipped  gold, 
And  all  its  vicious  purpose  cold. 

We,  for  the  homes  we  love  so  dear, 
We,  for  the  fields  our  fathers  won, 

Meet  battle's  front,  without  a  fear ; 
Beneath  this  rising  sun 


SEYMOUR  AT  CHAPULTEPEC.  151 

Our  banners  court  the  breeze ;  our  word, 
Death  to  the  tyrant  and  his  horde  ! 

When  stood  a  people  for  the  right, 
But  with  the  will  found  out  the  way? 

March !     Truth  and  honor  lead  the  fight  - 
March  !     Ours  shall  be  the  day  ; 

I)  /\vn  go  the  holds  of  wrong  and  pride, 

The  King  of  Hosts  is  on  our  side ! 


SEYMOUR  AT  CHAPULTEPEC.* 

WHEX  broke  the  morning  of  the  day 
Chapultepec  before  us  lay  ; 
Just  as  the  dawn  stole  o'er  the  plain 
In  thunders  pealed  our  battle-train  ; 
Quick,  sharp,  the  work  our  gunners  plied, 
As  fast  the  foe  his  answers  tried  ; 
Hold  heart  must  stir  his  manly  breast 
\Vlio  wins  yon  castle's  frowning  crest ! 

Soon  came  the  word,  as  soon  we  form, 
The  dread,  but  welcome  word,  to  "storm!  " 
Our  chiefs  each  eager  squadron  lead, 
Each  soldier  springs  at  headlong  speed ; 

*  Col.  THOMAS  H.  SEYMOUR,  afterwards  Governor  of  Connecti 
cut. 


152  POEMS. 

What  recked  we  then  of  steel  or  ball, 
Or  guarded  rampart's  fiery  wall? 
Back  rolled  his  host,  and  face  to  face 
We  met  that  castle's  rocky  base. 

Deadlier  the  strife  !     Yon  bloody  plain 
Passed,  is  but  battle's  verge  to  gain  ; 
City  of  Gold  !  for  native  land, 
Altars,  and  homes  your  brave  men  stand  ; 
We  for  our  country,  far  away, 
For  glory,  dare  the  desperate  day ; 
On  !  on  !  our  soldiers  only  know 
Behind  them  shame,  in  front  the  foe ! 

'Mid  volumed  flame  and  crashing  ball 
We  plant  our  ladders  to  the  wall ; 
The  dead  and  dying  lie  below, 
Up,  with  a  rush,  their  comrades  go ; 
Now  on  the  blood-streamed  parapet, 
Hurrah  !  our  troops  their  footsteps  set ; 
Forward,  as  wont,  to  gallant  deed, 
Howard,  McKenzie,  Selden  lead. 

And  Seymour  !  never  nobler  knight 
Met  the  dark  brow  of  deadliest  fight ; 
Calm  in  the  conflict's  furious  hour, 
Firm  as  some  storm-defying  tower  ; 


MA  Y  iroxj'ixa.  153 


Never  on  field  of  old  renown 

Could  wreath  a  braver  soldier  crown, 

As,  foremost,  to  his  rallying  cry 

Our  column's  charge  gave  swift  reply. 

Short  was  the  strife  —  the  time  how  short! 
Within  that  crag-built  castle's  court. 
Enough!  they  fight;  they  break;  they  run; 
Such  onset  might  the  boldest  shun. 
Seymour  !  thy  hand  the  flag  down  tore 
Chapultepec's  proud  fortress  bore  ; 
Heavenward    the    Stripes    and    Stars    were 

thrown, 
And  Mexico  was  all  our  own  ! 


MAY   MORNING. 

SWEET nu  than  the  Summer  time, 
At  its  rosiest  morning  prime; 
Sweeter  than  its  deepening  day, 
At  the  noon,  among  the  hay ; 
Sweeter  than  its  eve,  that  brings 
All  things  home  and  sweetest  things 
Sweetest  month  of  all  the  year, 
May  the  darling,  May  the  dear ! 
Well  might  poet's  welcome  greet 
May  with  every  name  that 's  sweet. 


154  POEMS. 

Bid  forth  April  with  his  tears, 
Now  the  jovial  May  appears  ; 
Farewell,  sleet  and  gusty  showers, 
Give  us  songs  and  give  us  flowers  ; 
Welcome  May !  ere  yet,  too  soon, 
Flame  the  fervent  airs  of  June  ; 
June  we  love,  but  oh,  much  more 
Love  the  May,  that  goes  before ; 
Prize  the  promises  of  May, 
More  than  all  that  June  can  pay; 
Joy  has  no  ecstatic  treasure 
Like  the  smile  of  coming  pleasure, 
So  fond  Hope  exceeds  by  far 
All  that  joy's  fulfilments  are. 


Now  it  is  the  morn  of  May, 
Welcome  in  the  joyful  day ! 
Life  revives,  that  went  to  rest 
On  benignant  Nature's  breast, 
And  her  heart  reopening  warms 
Earth's  uncounted  hues  and  forms. 
Now  the  curtained  skies  unfold 
Deeper  blue,  more  lavish  gold  ; 
Tenderer  tints  on  clouds  more  light 
Blush  with  morn  and  fade  at  night ; 
Now  green  tree-twigs  sprout  aloft, 
In  the  sunshine  warm  and  soft ; 


MAT  MORNING.  155 

Robed  in  mottled  gray  and  green 

All  the  freshening  woods  are  seen ; 

Fields,  so  lately  sere  and  dead, 

Are  with  living  verdure  spread. 

Sunny  sheltered  patches  by 

Opes  some  flower  its  tiny  eye  ; 

Budded  under  the  cold  snow, 

The  fragrant  Mayflower  long  ago, 

But  full  beauty  and  perfume, 

Kept  to  welcome  May  in  bloom. 

Now  the  bird-voice,  silent  long, 

Bursts  into  enraptured  song ; 

Chanted  lays  and  tuneful  cries 

Ring  through  woods,  and  fields,  and  skies ; 

Every  bird,  on  airy  wing, 

Feels  the  coming  of  the  spring; 

So  each  sight  and  sound  of  earth 

Well  may  hail  young  Nature's  birth ! 


Then  let  boys  and  girls  go  out 

With  a  merry,  merry  shout ; 

Scamper  o'er  the  breezy  hill, 

Rest  on  stone,  by  bubbling  rill ; 

Pluck  wild  flowers,  each  youth  and  maid, 

By  wild  brook,  or  mossy  shade ; 

Drink  the  draught  of  morning  deep, 

While  their  drowsy  comrades  sleep  ; 


156  POEMS. 

Hands  and  aprons  full,  then  come 
With  their  gathered  treasures  home. 
Thus  't  is  meet  to  hail  the  day, 
On  this  merry  morn  of  May ; 
And  if  hearts  are  true  and  pure, 
These  are  blisses  that  endure : 
Happy  they,  who  know  no  more 
Than  kind  nature's  simple  lore  ; 
Happy  they,  by  plain  and  dell, 
Hill  and  stream,  who  love  her  well ; 
Happy  souls,  that  sing  and  play 
On  the  gladsome  morn  of  May ! 


A   HINT. 

THERE  is  a  questionable  practice 

Grown  up  in  Congress  ;  for  the  fact  is, 

Grave  senators,  to  show  civility, 

And  manifest  their  amiability, 

Allude  to  others,  tit  for  tat, 

As  "my  friend"  This,  and  "my  friend"  That. 

But  is  it  not,  among  these  patres, 

A  little  infra  dignitates, 

To  stoop  from  parliamentary  ways 

Down  to  a  mere  colloquial  phrase  ? 

Till  such  familiar  terms  show  no  man 

The  difference  between  friend  and  foeman  ? 


FOR   THE   TIMES.  157 

Say  (and  the  instances  I  take 

Just  for  the  rhyme's  despotic  sake), 

Say,  for  example,  from  Missouri 

The  senator  gets  up,  in  fury, 

And  gives  the  member  from  Nevada 

Hit  after  hit,  now  hard  and  harder, 

And  calls  him  all  the  while  "nry  friend;" 

Does  not  this  mode  of  speaking  tend, 

With  us  outsiders,  all  of  us, 

To  seem  uncommon  ludicrous  ? 

No,  my  dear  sir,  in  private  meetings 

You  should  give  friendly  nods  and  greetings ; 

But  on  the  senate-floor  your  station 

Is  as  a  pillar  of  the  nation, 

Which  stands  for  nothing  else  but  for 

"  The  honorable  senator," 

Who  person  drops,  and  only  bends 

His  public  mind  to  public  ends. 


SONNET   FOR  THE   TIMES.* 

1SG2. 

UNWREAKED  the  woe  his  prophet-lips   de 
clared, 

Jonah  indignant  stood ;  for  so  the  Lord, 
Wiser  than  man,  withheld  the  fatal  word ; 

*  On  meeting  a  clergyman,  who  said  he  was  "  going  to  an  indig 
nation  j>?V(^er-IUv:etiiig." 


158  POEMS. 

Than  man  more  merciful,  the  people  spared  j 
And  sovereign  over  all  his  works,  endure 
His  wisdom  and  his  mercy,  still  supreme ; 
Man  for  a  moment  moulds  his  feeble  scheme, 
But  God's  eternal  purpose  stands  secure. 
Not  as  thou   seest  He  sees,  whose  perfect 

skill 

Adjusts  the  balance  of  each  circling  world, 
Nor  lets  thy  bolts  of  partial  fury  hurled 
Work  the  rash  vengeance  of  man's  blinded 

will. 

Indignant  gifts  to  him  how  unforgiven ! 
And  angry  prayers  return,  nor  entrance  find 
in  Heaven. 


A   VALENTINE, 

FEB.  14,  1853. 

UPON  this  day,  so  legends  say, 
In  climes  than  ours  more  kind, 

By  field  and  grove,  his  mated  love 
Doth  every  warbler  find. 

Yet  if  the  hours  that  wake  the  flowers 

These  gentle  bosoms  move, 
What  wonder  Spring  should  with  it  bring 

Some  fond  appeal  to  love  ? 


TARE  AND   TRET.  159 

But,  oh,  what  fears,  hopes,  doubts,  and  tears 

Proclaim  his  love  divine, 
Who,  spite  of  snows  and  wintry  blows, 

Comes  forth  vour  Valentine. 


TARE   AND   TRET. 

SAYS  Deacon  Sharp  to  neighbor  Gray, 

"  You've  done  your  job,  and  here 's  your  pay  ; 

Ten  silver  dollars,  new  and  bright; 

Here,  count  it,  and  you  '11  find  it  right." 

Now  neighbor  Gray,  a  workman  good 

As  ever  put  a  plane  to  wood, 

Too  shrewd  and  honest  he  to  pilfer, 

Takes  up  the  shining  rounds  of  silver  ; 

"Deacon,  my  bill  is  ten,  you  know, 

And  though  your  pieces  make  a  show 

Of  ten  in  count,  yet  all  this  coin 

In  real  value  is  but  nine ; 

So,  when  I  pay  our  friend,  the  grocer, 

In  coin  like  this,  he'll  answer,  'No,  sir; 

It  does  not  take  a  wondrous  scholar 

To  tell  of  tea  sold  for  a  dollar, 

If  ten  per  cent,  from  that  be  taken 

I  put  on  ten  to  save  my  bacon.' 

Who  loses,  then  ?  you  '11  see  at  once, 

Unless  a  Congressman  and  dunce." 


160  POEMS. 


WEBSTER,   EVERETT,   CHOATE. 

IN  Massachusetts,  of  our  later  years, 

Three    men    have    lived    pre-eminent    in 

fame ; 

This  like  a  sun :  and  he  the  kingly  name 
Of   our   Defender   bore,    when    doubts   and 

fears 
Shook  our  sad  hearts.     That,  as  the  moon 

appears 

Through  lustrous   clouds,  and  on  his  sil 
very  tongue 
Sweet,  rich,  and  full,  persuasion's  accents 

hung. 

The  other,  as  amid  the  naming  spheres 
A  constellation,  glittering  with  the  light 
Of  many  a  star,  illuminates  the  night. 
Living,  they  were  the  lions  of  their  kind : 
Dead,  as  they  rest,  each  in    his  honored 

grave, 
Though  currish  creatures  at  their  memory 

rave, 

Stands,  and  will  stand  their   monument  of 
mind. 


WOMAN.  161 


WOMAN. 

WHEN  golden  youth  is  all  our  own, 
And  life  is  dear  and  hope  is  high, 

When  beauty's  voice  hath  music's  tone, 
And  rapture  speaks  in  beauty's  eye ; 

Ah  me,  what  sweet  but  dangerous  wiles 

Lurk  in  the  light  of  woman's  smiles ! 


But  when  these  glittering  dreams  decay, 
And  manhood's  cares  come  thronging  on, 

When  magic  youth  hath  passed  away 

And  life  grows  dark  and  hope  is  gone,  — 

Ah  me,  what  then  can  soothe  our  fears 

Like  woman's  smiles  through  woman's  tears  ? 


And  thus,  through  life's  enchanted  maze, 
Now  wrung  by  woe's  severest  pain, 

Now  borne  down  pleasure's  devious  ways, 
We  taste  the  bliss  and  wear  the  chain  ;- 

Ah  me,  how  dark  our  being  here 

Without  that  smile,  —  without  that  tear  ! 


162  POEMS. 


REDIENS. 

KINGS,     crowned   with    conquest,   to    their 

realms  return  — 
What  myriads  hail  their  power,  their  deeds 

proclaim ! 
Though  fields  lie  waste,  and  ravaged  cities 

burn, 

Fire,  famine,  slaughter,  swell  the  trump  of 
fame. 

Yet,  when  their  state  yields   to    consuming 

death, 

Their  freshest  laurels  like  themselves  decay; 
How  brief  their  record  !     And  time's  flatter 
ing  breath 
In  faint  and  fainter  murmurs  dies  away. 

Records  there  are,  that  all-devouring  Age 
But  graves  more  deeply,  as  it  passes  by ; 

On  earth  the  copy  of  a  fairer  page, 

First  writ,  and  thence  immortal  made,  on 
high. 

So  hallowed  his  shall  live,  whose  bounteous 

hand 

Two  grateful  nations   own ;   'mid  ocean's 
roar, 


THE  MYSTERY.  163 

What  prayers   his  good  ship  blessed,   from 

either  strand, 
And  his  memorial  crowns  each  parted  shore  I 

He  too,  has  conquered ;  yet  not  human  woes, 
But  deeds  of  mercy,  make  his   triumphs 

known  — 
Conquests   of    sordid   thought   and   passing 

shows  — 

And  these  true  glories  need  no  columned 
stone. 

THE   MYSTERY. 

NIGHT  by  night,  from  study  rising, 
When  laid  down  the  folded  leaves, 

I  see  a  stream  of  lonely  light, 

From  a  window  under  the  eaves. 

It  gleams  from  that  upper  chamber, 
As  I  seek  my  midnight  rest, 

Or,  as  winter's  morning  hours  begin, 
When  Orion  declines  to  the  west. 

I  muse,  perforce,  who  that  watcher 
Through  the  depth  of  night  may  be, 

And  can  only  ask  of  Fancy 
To  hold  out  the  mystery's  key. 


164  POEMS. 

Perchance  that  attic-bird  may  be 

A  poet  musing  his  song, 
Or,  a  maiden  with  a  novel  — 

And  if  so,  it  must  be  long. 

Or,  who  can  tell  if  this  guest  of  night, 

'Till  morn  his  gate  unbars, 
May  not  prove  some  searcher  of  the  skies, 

Discoursing  with  the  stars  ? 

But  whether  sage,  or  maiden,  — 

Or  if  poet  his  verses  weaves, 
Late,  late  in  the  night  gleams  that  lonely 
light, 

From  the  window  under  the  eaves. 


STANZAS   TO   A  LADY. 

O  LADY,  take  these  wilding  flowers, 
Earliest  of  Spring's  reviving  birth, 

And  emblems,  in  her  freshening  bowers 
Of  all  that's  bright  and  best  of  earth. 

In  hue  so  sweet,  so  pure,  so  fair, 
These  symbols  of  divinest  things, 

Like  maidens  court  the  summer  air, 
And  shrink  from  Winter's  icy  wings. 


ON  RETURN  OF  NATIVES,  ETC.    165 

But  born  from  day's  irradiant  beani 

They  caught  these  hues,  so  softly  bright, 

Live  in  the  blaze,  and  only  seem 

More  glorious  for  the  dazzling  light. 

Far  different  law  must  she  obey, 
Their  sister  flower,  the  lovely  maid, 

And  stealing  from  the  glare  away, 
Owe  all  her  beauties  to  the  shade. 


SONG 

ON  RETURN  OF  NATIVES  TO  NEWBURYPORT. 

LET  grateful  songs  ascend  on  high, 
For  now  the  day  of  days  has  come, 

When  swelling  heart  and  moistened  eye, 
Bid  myriad  wanderers  welcome  home. 

Each  field,  and  hill,  and  grassy  slope 
Recalls — what  buried  joys  and  tears! 

While  memory  crowns,  in  hand  with  hope, 
This  harvest  of  a  hundred  years. 

These  are  the  paths  our  fathers  trod ; 

Our  sons  the  faithful  thought  shall  keep 
And  bless,  like  us,  the  sacred  sod, 

Where  fathers  and  where  mothers  sleep. 


166  POEMS. 

Thus,«on  this  spot;  till  ages  end, 

While  souls  their  purest  thoughts  renew, 

The  past  shall  with  the  present  blend 
To  make  the  future  bright  and  true. 


EPISTLE   TO  . 

September,  1854. 

WHAT  various  ills  assail  the  honest  wight, 
Who   walks   the    city's    streets,    by  day   or 

night, 
His  common   plagues ;    what  open   dangers 

check 

His  onward  progress,  or,  unseen,  his  neck 
And  limbs  imperil,  l>y  the  headlong  course 
Of  wheel  impetuous  and  unmastered  horse  ! 
His  garments  spattered,  when  the  mud  lies 

deep ; 
The  blinding   dust,  when    skies    forbear  to 

weep ; 
How  wintry  sidewalks   trip    the   incautious 

foot, 
And  snow-piled  roofs  their  melting  treasures 

shoot,  — 

Fain  would  I  sing,  —  but  one  surpassing  ill 
Frets  every  nerve  and  moulds  the   Muse's 

will. 


EPISTLE    TO  .  167 

Shrink  not,  my  soul,  inspired  by  noblest 

rage, 

To  stamp  this  vice  of  a  degenerate  age, 
Fox  tottering  eld  its  feeble  thanks  shall  speak, 
And  blushing  praises  tinge  the  virgin's  cheek. 

"  Come  then,  my  friend,  my  genius,  come 

along,"  - 
(Thus  with    Pope's  verse  I   consecrate   my 

song), 

Come,  with  the  morning  seek  the  busy  street, 
Where  truckmen  congregate  and  merchants 

meet; 

Or  stroll,  at  noon,  along  that  sinuous  way, 
Where  daily  belles   their  shopping  devoirs 

pay ; 

Or,   tired  of   wonted  toils,  with    sauntering 

pace, 
When   evening  falls,  your  homeward  steps 

retrace, 
Pleased  with  the  hope  to  taste  that  common 

air 

Benignant  heaven  bids  all  its  creatures  share  ; 
To  feel  the  glow,  and  revel  in  the  wealth 
Of  open  nature's  life-reviving  health,  — 
Delusive  hope  !  alas  !  no  fragrance  strays, 
On    heaven's   pure   breath  along  the   cit}-'s 

ways, 


168  POEMS. 

But  puff,  puff,  puff,  — one  vile  and  vaporous 
steam 

Pollutes   the    vital    air,  —  and   frights   your 
dream ! 

Refuge,  alas !  is  none,  rush  where  you  will, 

For  the  same  plague  pursues  your  footsteps 
still. 

You  sleep,  —  the  morning  dawns,  —  its  breath 
repairs 

Night's  stagnant  calm  and  dissipates  foul  airs; 

Eager  for  breakfast,  lo  !  you  jump  from  bed, 

The  smoking  baker  serves  you  smoking  bread ; 

Your  milkman  comes,  with  glittering  can,  that 
yields 

The  wisl\ed-for  draught  that  tells  of  freshen 
ing  fields,  — 

Ah  !  though  unwatered  roll  the  foamy  cream, 

What  scents  nicotian  linger  on  its  stream  ! 

Your  tougher  frame  milk  poisoned  may  en 
dure, 

But,  Sir,  your  children's  stomachs  need  it 
pure. 

Dinner  you  buy,  —  disgust  finds  slight  relief, 

For  'tis  a  smoking  butcher  sells  smoked  beef; 

Without,    within,    methinks    'tis   much    the 
same, 

One  noxious  cloud  betrays  the  smouldering 
flame. 


EPISTLE    TO  .  169 

Abroad,  in  front,  the  bearded  German  pours 
From  mustached  mouth  the  meerschaum's 

reeking  stores ; 

Close  on  your  rear  Gaul's  gayer  gallant  trips, 
The  wreathed  smoke  curling  o'er  his  hairy 

lips; 
Here,  'twixt  his  teeth  his  short  b'ack  pipe 

Pat  tucks, 

There,  Jonathan  a  long-nine  vilely  sucks, 
And  oft  aside  the  dainty  damsel  skips, 
To  shun  the  cloud  from  Cuffee's  steaming 

lips ; 

While  fumes  narcotic  circle  round  your  head, 
Nightly,  from  throats  of  boys  best  sent  to  bed ! 
You  stop,  —  retreat,  —  in  vain,  in  vain  you 

pause, 

In  long  procession  breathe  the  fiery  jaws, 
Nor   better    fortune    crowns    your    forward 

speed, 
Smoke   blends   with    smoke,   and    clouds   to 

cloud  succeed. 

Horror  and  fell  despair  surround  your  path, 
You  shut  your  mouth,  smothered  with  smoke 

and  wrath ; 
Fired  with  a  happy  thought,  you  bend  your 

way 
Where  the  broad  Common  looks  on  closi: -? 

day; 


170  POEMS. 

And  catches  from  the  chambers  of  the  West 
Heaven's  lingering  smile  upon  its  verdant 
breast. 

"Here,  here  at  least,"  you  cry,  "these  green 

retreats 
Safe    from    each    nuisance   of    the    crowded 

streets, 
Waft  the  quick  air,  whose  generous  impulse 

gives 

Play  to  the  lungs,  and  in  the  nostrils  lives ; 
Here,  where  cool  zephyrs  stir  the  shaded  walk, 
Sacred  to  lovers'  strolls,  and  friendly  talk, 
Where  light  coquetry  flaunts,  with  mincing 

gait, 

And  sober  seniors  move,  in  grave  debate,  — 
Here,  the  sage  guardians  of  the  city's  weal, 
By  duty  taught  for  others'  woes  to  feel, 
Shall  wield  the  baton  of  imperious  Law, — 
The  weak  man's  barrier,  and  the  miscreant's 

awe,  — 
With  Argus-glance  shall  watch  this  hallowed 

bound, 
Xor  let  one  noisome  puff  infect  the  ground." 

Vain  thought !  even  here  what  steaming 

horrors  rise, 
Stir  the  quick  nose  and  blear  the  winking  eyes ! 


EPISTLE  TO  -  .  171 

Who  has  not  seen  (and  poured  his  fruitless 

wrath 

On  the  false  guardians  of  the  public  path) 
The  slow-paced  matron  forced  from  smoke  1  1  > 

%, 

The  coy  maid  panting  with  a  vapory  sigh? 
Even  infant  innocence,  disturbed  in  play, 
Till  sneeze  on  sneeze  drove  the  foul  cloud 


And  some  poor  invalid,  with  haggard  face, 
Drag  o'er  the  well-swept  walk  his  faltering 

pace  ; 
Turn  from  the  hardened  smoker,  —  turn  in 

pain, 
Sigh  for  the  sweet  southwest,  and  sigh  in  vain  ! 

And  yet  I  wage  no  blindly  furious  war 
On  Cuba's  weed  ;  in  fact,  a  mild  cigar 
In  proper  time  and  place  I  rather  love. 
Alone,  or  when  the  genial  currents  move, 
And  gay  discourse  and  merry  laugh  afford 
Fitting  occasion  round  the  social  board  ; 
But  not  in  public  ways,  —  and  most  I  urge 
From  such  vile  usance  free  the  Common's 

verge. 
This  public  health  demands;  nay  more,  me- 

thinks, 
As  the  smoke  rises,  public  virtue  sinks, 


172  POEMS. 

While  there,  uncurbed,  the  odorous  incense 

flings 

Its  weedy  fragrance  on  a  thousand  wings. 
For  there,  as  legends  tell,  the  drowsy  god, 
Whose  sign  of  empire  is  a  solemn  nod, 
Who  guards  the  watchman's  nightly  sleep, 

and  sees 

That  aldermanic  men  enjoy  their  ease,  — 
When  the  full  air  stands  loaded  with  the 

power 

Of  its  most  somnolent  and  potent  hour, 
With  day's  and  night's  whole  stagnant  odors 

stuffed,  — 
From    cutty   pipe,    cigar,    and    meerschaum 

puffed,  — 

Then,  by  some  chemistry,  whose  secret  source 
Alone  he  knows,  he  gathers  all  its  force 
Seizes  the  smoky  vapors,  as  they  rise, 
The  sleepy  essence  catches  ere  it  flies, 
Through  some  alembic,  with  congenial  skill 
Knows  all  its  wondrous  virtues  to  distil, 
In  one  vast  phial  seals  its  nightly  all. 
And  daily  pours  it  over  City  Hall. 


TO  A.   W.   A.  173 


TO   A.   W.   A.* 

WHENE'ER  I  pass  a  tempting  stall, 

Where  the  fruit-venders  cheat  us  all, 

A  pang,  dear  friend,  my  conscience  grapples, 

In  memory  of  your  generous  apples; 

To  think  my  muse,  the  sluggish  jade, 

Not  one  poor  word  of  thanks  has  said. 

A  peck  had  been  a  handsome  present, 

Twice  such  a  gift  pro  rata  pleasant ; 

And  for  a  barrel,  by  my  fay ! 

At  market  prices  who  could  pay? 

(Those  held  apiece  for  half  a  dime, 

With  burdened  orchards  all  the  time)  ; 

So,  to  be  sure,  I  scarce  could  quarrel 

With  the  grand  bounty  of  a  barrel ! 

Duly  it  came  ;  our  porter,  Hugh, 

Tugged  it  up-stairs,  with  much  ado  ; 

To  what  we  call  our  kitchen  rolled  it, 

Having  no  other  place  to  hold  it. 

My  good  wife,  pleased  beyond  all  measure, 

Welcomed  the  prize  with:  "  What  a  treasure !" 

She's  a  neat  hand,  sir,  at  a  puddiif , 

And  dropped  a  hint  how  very  good  in 

*  To  acknowledge  a  barrel  of  apples. 


174  POEMS. 

A  light  envelopment  of  paste, 
Or  baked,  or  boiled,  the  fruit  would  taste. 
But  I,  who  seldom  say  her  nay, 
Nor,  if  I  did,  should  win  the  day, 
At  once  declared  it  common  law 
Such  apples  should  be  eaten  raw. 
Our  little  girl,  a  sprightly  elf, 
Made  dishes  dance  upon  the  shelf, 
She  capered  round  with  such  delight, 
When  the  red  Baldwins  met  her  sight. 
At  first,  with  suppliant  voice  and  brow, 
'Twas :  "  Papa,  break  the  barrel  now  ;  " 
Since,  from  day's  dawn  to  its  late  close, 
"  Please,  papa,  apple,"  —  so  it  goes. 
And  when  she  thinks  no  eye  is  watching, 
The  little  elf,  occasion  snatching, 
Steals  slyly  to  the  heap,  and  seizes 
The  fruit  for  which  all  day  she  teases. 

You  see,  dear  sir,  your  timely  bounty, 
Ripe  produce  of  old  Norfolk  county, 
Proved  a  clear  gain  to  Suffolk  living, 
Helped  us  to  carry  out  Thanksgiving, 
And  promises  dessert  that  fits  us 
Long  after  Christmas  comes  and  quits  us. 


IIARMOD1US  AND  ARISTOGEITON. 


IIAKMODIUS  AND  ARISTOGEITON.*  : 

I'LL  cover  my  sword  with  myrtle, 

So  did  Harmodius  do  ; 
Both  he  and  Aristogeiton 

When  they  the  tyrant  slew  ; 
And  in  freedom's  glorious  cause 
Gave  to  Athens  equal  laws. 

Beloved  Harmodius  !  no,  you  are  not  dead, 
But  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest  still  live, 

Where  swift  Achilles,  and  with  him,  'tis  said, 
Great  Tydeus'  son,  stout  Diomed,  survive. 

My  sword  I'll  cover  with  myrtle, 

So  did  Harmodius  do, 
Both  he  and  Aristogeiton, 

When  they  the  tyrant  slew ; 
'Mid  our  rites  divine,  they  say, 
Slain  the  man,  Hipparchus,  lay. 

And,  dear  Harmodius,  this  forever  due 
To  you  and  your  compatriot  glory  be. 

That  him,  the  people's  tyrant,  then  ye  slew, 
That  ye  with  equal  laws  made  Athens  free  ! 

*  Ode  attributed  to  Alcaeus. 


176  POEMS. 


MILTON.* 

WIDEST,    to    him    whose    noblest    life    has 

sought 
Life's  noblest  aim,  long  ere  its  shadows 

close, 

Unfolds  the  golden  gate ;  the  stream  out 
flows 
Whence    the    free    spirit     drinks     diviiiest 

thought. 

Then,  visions  from  the  empyrean  caught 
Imbue  the  waiting  soul ;  the  bridal  rose 
Of  Sharon  blended  with  the  lily  glows, 
For  him  in  one  immortal  chaplet  wrought. 

*  "  He  was  now  poor  and  blind  ;  and  who  would  pursue  with 
violence  an  illustrious  enemy,  depressed  by  fortune  and  disarmed 
by  nature?"  —  Johnson's  Life. 

These  high-sounding  words  only  serve  to  conceal  the  biogra 
pher's  real  design.  He  understood  nothing  of  the  serene  inward 
satisfaction  of  Milton's  great  soul,  and  was  incapable  of  awarding 
justice  either  to  his  principles  or  his  powers.  But  there  is  no 
semblance  of  truth  in  the  consequential  portion  of  the  passage, 
it  is  certain  that  Milton  was  quite  removed  from  the  deprivations 
of  penury  ;  his  own  sonnet  on  his  blindness  precludes  any  such 
appeal  to  our  compassion  as  Dr.  Johnson  indicates;  and  Paradise 
Lost,  composed  in  the  condition  in  which  he  was,  shows  where  his 
mind  dwelt,  though  living  himself  within  hearing  of  the  license  of 
a  profligate  court  and  subject  to  popular  indifference  and  neglect. 
A  sentence,  like  that  quoted  from  the  "  Lives  of  the  Poets,"  may 
be  thought,  perhaps,  a  sufficient  excuse,  at  all  times,  for  an 
attempt  to  conceive  of  the  blind  old  bard  in  a  different  strain. 


EPISTLE    TO  PROF.   HOLDOX.  177 

Deeper  arid  holier  than  the  hope  of  youth 

The  heart's  high  trust,  as  mortal  ties  decay ; 
Too  oft,  our  broken  manhood  tears  of  ruth 
Demands ;  at  morn,  we  know  not   of  the 

day ; 
Fair  holds  its  promise,  when,  redeemed  like 

truth, 

Clear  evening  melts  in  depths  of  heaven 
away. 


EPISTLE   TO   THE   LEARNED   PROF. 
HOLDON. 

GOOD,  honest  friend,  whose  sober  eyes 
Have  learned,  betimes,  to  scrutinize 
The  length  and  breadth  of  Nature's  laws, 
And  construe  science  through  its  Cause ; 
Watchful  to  shun  each  flickering  ray, 
That  leads  down  Folly's  devious  way; 
Content  (since  what  can  calm  its  flurry?) 
To  see  this  world  run  hurry-skurry ; 
Yet  using  well  your  talent  given, 
Mindful  of  strict  account  with  Heaven ; 
Tell  me,  if  now  the  nearing  moon  * 
Puts  Nature's  concert  out  of  tune, 

*  The  moon 

Doth  come  more  near  the  earth  thai)  she  was  wont 
And  makes  men  mad.  —  Shake s 


178  POEMS. 

Or,  by  what  madness  more  insane, 
Reason  deserts  the  toppling  brain? 

Time  was,  in  every  Christian  land, 
Reason  with  Faith  went  hand  in  hand ; 
Science,  a  dame  devout  and  sage, 
Borrowed  her  lore  from  Wisdom's  page, 
And  old  Experience  taught  the  rules 
Not  yet  decried  by  hair-brained  fools. 
Now,  topsy-turvy,  all's  reversed; 
Experience  tottles  to  be  nursed. 
Children  become  in  science  teachers, 
And  moon-struck  women  set  up  preachers, 
Reason  the  cap  and  bells  puts  on, 
And  honest  faith  is  dead  and  gone. 

A  sweeping  charge  !  Alas  !  example 
Affords  us  evidence  too  ample, 
For  what  cheap  price  and  weak  pretence 
Men  barter  off  their  common  sense. 
Thus,  sir,  they  say  'tis  demonstrable, 
By  vital  force  infused,  a  table,  — 
A  sapless,  senseless  thing  of  wood,  — 
Sprightly  as  good  warm  flesh  and  blood, 
Will  hop,  skip,  jump,  curvet  and  prance, 
Like  Satan's  hags,  in  midnight  dance ! 
And  some  old  women  give  it  credit, 
As  if  in  newspapers  they  read  it ; 


EPISTLE   TO  PROF.   HOLDON.  179 

But  men,  not  yet  grown  transcendental, 

Who  stand  for  proofs,  as  elemental, 

"Will  hold,  till  facts  assure  conviction, 

The  thing  a  cheat  —  the  tale  a  fiction. 

And  yet  weak  minds,  that  dare  deny 

Heaven's  lucid  truth,  hold  fast  a  lie  ; 

So,  eyes  congenial  with  the  night 

Close  their  blear'd  lids,  and  flout  the  light. 

No  Architect  they  see,  who  spreads, 

Beneath  their  feet,  above  their  heads, 

His  glorious  works  ;  for  them  in  vain 

Day    flings    his    blaze,  —  Night    hangs    her 

train ; 

To  them,  clear  truth  is  but  delusion, 
Order,  perverted  to  confusion  ; 
Their  thoughts,  a  jarred  and  jumbled  throng, 
Weakness    their    strength    and    right    their 

wrong. 

Even  man's  high  immortality,  — 
The  wondrous  scenes  of  Galilee,  — 
That  holy  dawn,  whose  glory  stood 
On  Zion's  hill,  by  Jordan's  flood, 
Pierced  the  wide  world's  incumbent  gloom, 
And  lights  earth's  weary  pilgrim  home  ; 
Yes  —  all  that  bids  the  spirit  soar 
Where  seraphs  burn  and  saints  adore, 
Poured  on  their  blinded  vision,  seems 
A  tissue  wrought  of  vanished  dreams. 


180  POEMS. 

Yet  they  will  swear,  their  proofs  are  able 
To  shew  that  spirits  move  the  table ! 
For  since,  'tis  plain  no  table  known 
Was  ever  seen  to  go  alone,  — 
And  since,  'tis  quite  incomprehensible, 
Wood  should  to  fleshly  touch  be  sensible  — 
If  then  its  aid  no  spirit  lend 
The  table  on  its  dance  to  send,  — 
Why,  Q.  E.  D.,  we  must  infer, 
Unless  you  push  —  it  will  not  stir! 

But  since  we  read,  on  high  abide 

Those  happy  spirits  glorified, 

Nor  leave,  for  scenes  of  low  employ, 

Their  pure,  eternal  seats  of  joy  ; 

But,  kindled  with  ascending  fire, 

Still  towards  the  Infinite  aspire ; 

Since  they,  from  beatific  vision, 

Descend  on  no  such  petty  mission; 

And  since,  but  spirits  high  and  low, 

The  evil  and  the  good,  we  know ; 

Methinks     this     thought    should     give     us 

pause,  — 

What  spirits  are  the  moving  cause? 
Or  else,  we  stumble  in  the  dark, 
For  mischief  yield  ourselves  the  mark,  — 
If  thus  we  dare,  foolhardy  grown, 
To  tamper  with  the  all  unknown  ; 


EPirsicninioN.  18] 

Demean  and  brutify  ourselves, 
Mocked,  haply,  by  malicious  elves, 
Or  lured  by  demons  strong  in  evil, 
Imp,  fairy,  goblin,  fiend  or  devil ! 
'Till  the  trail  man,  by  reason  left, 
Or  worse,  of  faith  and  hope  bereft, 
Like  helmless  bark,  that  finds  no  port, 
Of  every  wind  and  wave  the  sport, 
Drives  on,  through  seas  tumultuous  tost, 
His  soul's  immortal  jewel  lost ! 


EPIPSICHIDTON. 

ONE  fleeting  year,  since  first  we  met, 

Has  swept  down  life's  receding  stream, 
And  round  my  memory  brightens  yet 

Each  image  of  that  first  fond  dream  ; 
Still  the  sweet  vision  of  thy  }routh, 

Ere  fading  hopes  grew  dim  with  fears, 
Lives  in  my  soul,  like  living  truth, 

Unchilled  by  time,  unchanged  by  tears. 

One  fleeting  year !     The  Spring's  glad  prime 
Again  its  wonted  course  has  kept, 

And  brings  once  more  that  holiest  time, 
When  all  my  heart  believed  and  slept ; 


182  POEMS. 

When  I,  alas !  too  sadly  cold 

For  thee,  so  young,  so  fond,  so  true, 

Called  back  my  soul  from  depths  of  old. 
And  gave  to  love  and  thee  their  due. 

One  fleeting  year !     And  what  art  thou  ? 

Say,  dost  thou  feel  no  touch  of  pain  ? 
Shall  busy  memory  sleep,  as  now, 

Nor  thought,  nor  passion  wake  again? 
Or  wilt  thou  be  that  giddy  thing 

I  may  not,  dare  not  think  or  say, 
That,  borne  on  every  breeze's  wing, 

Flutters  love,  life,  and  all  away? 

If  such  thou  art,  then  fare  thee  well,  — 

I  may  but  dread  thy  future  years, 
When  every  bright,  delusive  spell 

Has  faded,  and  but  left  thee  tears. 
When,  in  thine  hours  of  cheerless  mirth, 

Some  wakening  pang  recalls  again 
A  nobler  love,  —  a  higher  worth, — 

The  loved,  the  lost, — in  vain,  in  vain 

Yet,  oh  !  it  may  not,  must  not  be,  — 
So  bright  a  soul,  —  so  fair  a  form, 

Still  let  me  dream  undimmed  I  see 
To  all  their  early  promise  warm  ; 


AT  REST.  183 

Hope,  that  my  being's  thought  refined, 
Gleam,  caught  in  beauty  from  above, 

Sweet,  sacred  vision  of  my  mind, 

Still  let  me  dream,  —  still  let  me  love  ! 


AT    REST. 

AND  sweet  within  thy  quiet  grave 

Shall  be  thy  slumber,  long  and  deep ; 
The  rest  that  wearied  spirits  crave 

Thy  life  hath  won,  and  gone  to  sleep ; 
Above  thy  breast  the  blue-eyed  flowers 
Bring  memories  of  thy  waking  hours  ; 
And  life  but  seems  a  'wildered  dream 

Since  thou,  a  sweeter  flower  unshed, 
Bloomed  here  beneath  the  parting  beam 

That  now  but  gilds  its  bed. 

I  see  the  violet's  gentle  eye 

Look  on  me  through  its  folded  green, 
And  softening  airs,  that  scarcely  sigh, 

Creep  o'er  that  grassy  screen  ; 
Above,  the  chambers  of  the  west 
In  heaven's  descending  glories  drest, 
And  many  a  wild-bird  merry  makes 

With  twilight's  home-returning  stave  ; 
But  oh,  my  heart  no  longer  wakes ! 

'Tis  with  thee  in  thy  grave. 


184  POEMS. 

And  though  I  may  not  choose  but  weep, 

The  noblest  heart  of  human  mould 
Around  thy  place  of  pleasant  sleep, 

Beneath  earth's  virgin  fold  ; 
So  soft,  so  fair,  so  pure  a  thing, 
Oh,  who  would  claim  its  earthward  wing? 
While  sadly  sweet  from  memory's  shrine 

Immortal  breathes  a  spirit-sigh, 
And  whispers,  '•  Love  so  pure  as  thine 

Is  earnest  of  the  sky." 


THE   EAST  INDIAN  REVOLT. 

ONCE  more  the  might  of  England, 

Unconquered  and  sublime, 
Makes  glorious  annals  for  the  roll 

Writ  by  recording  Time. 
Triumphant  o'er  the  field  of  death, 

That  shrouds  her  foemen's  graves, 
Once  more  her  drum-beat  cheerly  rings, 

Once  more  her  red-cross  waves. 

Beyond  the  wastes  of  ocean,  — 

His  rose-clad  home  afar,  — 
Beneath  the  tropic's  sickly  line, 

Her  soldier  braves  the  war  ; 


TO  A    LADY.  185 

Steadfast  he  bared  his  manly  breast, 

To  do  what  man  could  dare, 
And  drove  the  savage  from  his  hold, 

The  tiger  to  his  lair. 

Amidst  the  roar  of  battle, 

The  shout  and  fiery  hail, 
He  heard  but  woman's  anguished  cry  — 

The  young  child's  piteous  wail ; 
Then  Justice  moved  the  vengeful  sword, 

The  impetuous  onset  led, 
And  winged  the  bolts  of  doom  that  smote 

The  crouching  traitors  dead. 

What  though  where  hall  and  cottage 

In  life-long  anguish  mourn, 
A  thousand  households  weep  for  flowers 
•  No  Spring  can  bid  return  ; 
Serene  amid  the  nations 

The  world's  great  heart  shall  feel 
Still  sits  old  England,  crowned  and  strong — 

God  bless  the  commonweal ! 

TO   A    LADY. 

LADY  !  round  whom  a  happy  nature 

Has  flung  her  best  and  choicest  treasures, 

And  made  you  just  the  charming  creature, 
To  solace  cares  and  sweeten  pleasures. 


186  POEMS. 

If  wishes  were  indeed  fruition, 

And  hope  could  give  us  all  we  wanted, 

We  scarce  could  ask  the  Fates'  permission 
To  make  you  more  than  they  have  granted. 

For  who  would  lose  the  spirit's  dances 
That  led  us  hither  now  and  thither, 

Or  one  of  all  those  brightening  glances, 
Which  oft  have  chased  our  cloudy  weather  ? 

Or  change  the  wit,  whose  airy  fleetness 
Now  serves  so  well  to  cheer  and    charm 

us, — 
But,  rob  it  of  its  lovely  sweetness, 

Might  prove  a  thing  to  wound  and  harm 
us? 

But  keep,  — nor  count  1113-  wish  for  treason,  — 
The  all  with  which  your  star  arrayed  you, 

The  grace,  the  beauty,  and  the  reason, 
And  ever  be  what  Nature  made  you. 

Thus  glide  along  a  summer  current, 
With  all  life  has  of  weal  beside  you, 

Know  nothing  of  its  wilder  torrent, 
Nor  any  of  its  ills  betide  you. 


THE  ARK  OF  THE   TABERNACLE.        187 


THE   ARK   OF   THE   TABERNACLE. 

Samuel  ii.  6. 

WHAT  meaneth  the  tumult,  — 

The  dust  and  the  crowd,  — 
And  the  shout  of  the  people 

So  joyous  and  loud? 
With  music  and  dances 

Who  leads,  as  they  sing? 
Ah,  his  bearing  reveals  him  — 

'Tis  David,  the  King ! 

In  the  face  of  the  heathen, 

Our  camp  was  afraid, 
When  the  giant  defied  us, 

And  Saul  stood  dismayed,  — 
Then  I  saw  a  bold  stripling 

Come  forth  from  their  ring, 
And  my  heart's  prophet-whisper 

Said—  "David,  the  King  !  " 

Than  Abner  more  stately, 

More  regal  than  Saul, 
He  towered  'mid  the  captains, 

The  chief  of  them  all ; 
His  staff  took  the  shepherd, 

His  scrip  and  his  sling  — 


188  POEMS. 

And  where  is  Goliath? 
Oh,  David,  the  King  ! 

The  holy  —  the  awful  — 

Of  Him,  the  adored,  — 
From  Kirjath-jearim, 

The  ark  of  the  Lord, 
Home,  home,  to  the  city 

Of  Zion  they  bring,  — 
And  before  it  rejoicing 

Comes  David,  the  King. 

To  the  deep  roll  of  timbrels 

Peal  harp-notes  air-borne, 
The  psaltery  trembles 

And  swells  the  full  horn ; 
With  a  glow  on  his  brow, 

Like  a  wild  hart  his  spring, 
Advancing  and  dancing, 

Leaps  David,  the  King. 

When  Dagon  fell  prostrate, 

Philistia's  lords, 
Plague-smitten,  gave  back 

What  they  took  with  their  swords ; 
Their  curse  is  our  blessing,  — 

Our  glory  their  sting,  — 
This  ark  of  our  safety, 

With  David,  the  King. 


THE  ARK  OF  THE   TABERNACLE.        189 

The  altar  hath  smoked 

With  the  fat  of  the  kine,  — 
Now  the  King  deals  the  people 

His  bread  and  his  wine  ; 
Benignant  and  bounteous ! 

Bid  thrill  every  string, 
To  the  trumpet  proclaiming  — 

Hail,  David,  the  King ! 

Lo,  a  face  at  the  window  — 

How  evil  that  eye  ! 
It  is  Michal,  who  scoffs, 

As  the  throng  passes  by ; 
But  the  gathered  handmaidens, 

Around  her  who  cling, 
Whisper  low — '  Oh,  how  glorious 

Is  David,  the  King !  " 

Ho,  Israel  —  ho,  Judah  !  — 

Rejoice,  oh,  rejoice  ! 
For  the  Mightiest  returns,  — 

Still  is  Jacob  his  choice ! 
Our  tribes  in  the  shadow 

Shall  dwell  of  His  wing  — 
Rest,  —  rest  doth  he  give  us 

With  David,  the  King  ! 


190  POEMS. 


PILGRIM   SONG. 

OVER  the  mountain  wave 

See  where  they  come  ; 
Storm-cloud  and  wintry  wind 

Welcome  them  home ; 
Yet  where  the  sounding  gale 

Howls  to  the  sea, 
There  their  song  peals  along. 
Deep-toned  and  free  :  — 

Pilgrims  and  wanderers 

Hither  we  come ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be, 
This  is  our  home ! 

England  has  sunny  dales  — 

Dearly  they  bloom, 
Scotia  has  heather-hills, 

Sweet  their  perfume,  — 
Yet  through  the  wilderness 

Cheerful  we  stray, 
Native  land  —  native  land, 

Home,  far  away ; 

Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  etc. 

Dim  grew  the  forest-path  — 
Onward  they  trod ; 


MY  snip.  191 

Firm  beat  their  noble  hearts 

Trusting  in  God ! 
Gray  men  and  blooming  maids, 

High  rose  their  song, 
Hear  it  sweep,  clear  and  deep, 

Ever  along ; 

Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  etc. 

Not  theirs  the  glory-wreath 

Torn  by  the  blast ;  — 
Heavenward  their  holy  steps  - 

Heavenward  they  past ; 
Green  be  their  mossy  graves ! 

Ours  be  their  fame, 
While  their  song  peals  along, 

Ever  the  same  - 

Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  etc. 


MY   SHIP. 

A  WHITE  sail  gleamed  across  the  bay  : 
"  Is  it  my  ship  ?  "  a  maiden  cried, 

"  Or  some  lone  cloud  ?  "  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Such  as  my  grand-dame's  eye  espied  ?  " 

Oft  couched  around  the  evening  blaze, 
When  shadows  flickered  on  the  wall, 


192  POEMS. 

What  tales,  inethought,  of  other  days 
That  fair  girl's  simple  words  recall  ? 

What  freighted  barques,  on  many  a  breeze, 
Came  laden  with  their  precious  store, 

From  isles  of  spice  and  Indian  seas, 
Of  silks  and  gems  and  glittering  ore. 

Our  nurse  of  all  these  wonders  told  — 

"  When  comes  our  ship,  though  yet  unseen, 

Julian  shall  have  a  watch  of  gold, 
And  Marion  pearls  to  fit  a  queen. 

"  And  Kitty  darling  for  her  share, 
We'll  say  a  richly  broidered  gown, 

Or  something  yet  more  rich  and  rare, 
The  prettiest  doll  from  London  town." 

So  ran  the  legend ;  and  our  eyes 
Grew  wider  as  the  talk  went  on  ; 

How  fancy  revelled  in  each  prize, 

Prize,  ship,  and  all  like  shadows  gone  ! 

My  sea-beat  home  upon  the  shore 
Looks  far  across  the  mournful  main, 

But  on  that  sea  such  barque  before 
I  ne'er  beheld,  nor  shall  again. 


AT  THE  GATE.  193 

Illumined  by  that  damsel's  glance 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  a  glamour  cast ; 

High  waved  her  snowy  arm  ;  her  dance, 
As  neared  the  ship,  grew  light  and  fa*t. 

Down  clanged  the  anchor,  and  anon 
Out  sprang  a  boat  to  reach  the  land, 

As  swiftly  as  the  beach  it  won 

Leaped  a  young  seaman  to  the  strand. 

Stood  heart  to  heart,  and  lip  to  lip 
That  captain  and  the  maiden  fair  — 

'•My  ship!"  she  cried,  and  he,  "your  ship 
"  And  mine,  dear  love  !  "  My  dream  was  air. 


AT   THE   GATE. 

*••  AND  where  were  you  just  now,  Mabel, 

Where  have  you  been  so  long  ? 
The  moon  is  up,  and  all  the  birds 

Have  sung  their  evening  song. 
I  saw  you  loitering  down  the  path, 

So  lonely  and  so  late, 
Beyond  the  well  and  lilac-bush, 

And  hanging  at  the  gau-." 


194  POEMS. 

"  I  love  to  hear  the  birds,  mother, 

And  see  the  rising  moon, 
And,  oh,  the  summer  air  is  sweet 

Beneath  the  sky  of  June  ; 
My  cow  is  milked,  my  hens  are  cooped. 

And  washed  are  cup  and  plate  ; 
So  I  just  wandered  out  awhile, 

To  hang  upon  the  gate." 

"  The  gate  is  by  the  road,  Mabel, 

And  idle  folks  go  by, 
Nor  should  a  maiden  brook  the  glance 

Of  every  stranger  eye  ; 
Besides,  I  thought  I  saw  a  cap,  — 

I'm  sure  you  had  a  mate ; 
So,  tell  me  who,  with  you,  my  child, 

Was  hanging  at  the  gate." 

"Now,  you  know  just  as  well,  mother, 

'Twas  only  Harry  Gray  ; 
He  spoke  such  words  to  me  to-night, 

I  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
And,  mother,  oh,  for  your  dear  sake, 

I  only  bade  him  wait,  — 
And  might  I  run  and  tell  him  now  ? 

He's  hanging  at  the  gate  ?  " 


THE  SKATER.  195 


THE   SKATER. 

BROWN,   stiff,   and    heavy,   with   increasing 

years, 

Would  rival  still  young  Agile  with  his  peers,. 
His  ledger,  long  the  witness  of  his  skill ; 
A  stool  his  station  and  his  tool  a  quill. 
The  crystal  stream  invites;  he  binds  his  skates, 
And  trusts  his  neck  to  ice  and  slippery  fates, 
Say,  shall    he   fly,  perched   on    the    ringing 

steel, 
Cut  the  clear  eight,  or  trace   the  rounded 

wheel  ? 

Ah,  use  alone  even  balance  can  command ; 
Capers,  alas  !  why  scarcely  can  he  stand ; 
Down,  prostrate,  backwards,  the  first  step  he 

tries, 
Ten  thousand  stars  dance  in  his  swimming 

eyes, 
The  youngsters  crowd  around,  too  kind  by 

half, 
Proffer  quick  aid,  yet  scarce   conceal   their 

laugh ; 
His  skates   unlaced,  he    seeks    the   friendly 

shore, 
Convinced   at   length   his    skating  days  are 

o'er. 


196 


DEDICATORY   HYMN. 

For  a  Public  Library,  1883. 
AIR  :  Amtr'u-d. 

IMMORTAL  mind  to  raise 
Above  the  world's  low  ways, 

By  truth's  clear  thought ; 
For  this  we  build  the  hall, 
And  spread  upon  its  wall, 
Freely  for  each  and  all, 

What  mind  hath  wrought. 

Life  glows  along  the  page, 
Kindles  from  age  to  age 

The  sober  mind ; 

Brings,  through  the  poet's  dream, 
Scenes  that  both  are  and  seem, 
Lit  up  by  fancy's  gleam  — 

Light  to  the  blind. 

Thus  gathered  from  afar 
And  near,  what  treasures  are 

Brought  home  to  view  ! 
Be  this  a  sacred  store 
Of  young  and  elder  lore  ; 
May  time  forevermore 

Its  life  renew ! 


COOL  ft  ESS.  197 


COOLNESS.14 

WHEN  Fritz  the  Great,  that  king  of  men, 

For  kingdom  and  for  crown, 
Was  battling  Europe's  leagued  array, 

In  arms  to  put  him  down  ; 
At  Cassel,  by  his  force  besieged, 

'Tis  thus  the  story  runs  — 
The  Graf  Von  Lippe-Buckerburg 

Commanded  his  big  guns. 

Among  the  monarch's  leaders 

A  noted  man,  this  Count, 
None  worked  a  battery  like  him, 

None  braver  steed  did  mount ; 
A  little  queer  and  whimsical, 

Of  the  old  German  kind, 
And  stiff  as  was  the  pigtail, 

That  hung  his  neck  behind. 

And  now  the  king's  birthday  had  come ; 

To  grace  that  glad  event, 
The  choicest  comrades  of  the  Count 

He  feasted  in  his  tent ; 
Be  sure  the  wine  flowed  freely, 

Be  sure  they  ate  their  fill ; 
They  chattered,  jabbered,  joked,  and  smoked, 

As  only  Germans  will. 


198  POEMS. 

At  length,  outspoke  among  the  guests 

Perchance  the  soberest  wight, 
Where,  on  such  grand  occasion, 

No  doubt,  they  all  were  "  tight,"  — 
"  And  pray,  Herr  Graf,  what  sound  is  this 

Comes  now  and  then,  so  clear, 
A  sort  of  whistling  overhead  — 

Hark !  that's  it  now,  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing,"  spoke  the  Count, 

"  I  bade  my  gunners  there 
To  hit  our  tent-pole,  if  they  could  — 

Bat  see,  they  hit  the  air! 
The  mark  is  safe  enough  for  them, 

Such  blunderers,  I'll  be  bound, 
So  there's  no  danger,  gentlemen, 

And  pass  the  bottle  round  !  " 


THE   SLAVE-SHIP;  AFRICA. 

BEHOLD  the  land !  'T  is  noontide's  fiery 
calm, 

Through  its  dry  deserts,  gemmed  with  isles 
of  palm, 

Fierce  noontide  glares  on  ocean's  wide  ex 
panse, 

That  bright  and  breathless  sleeps  beneath  its 
glance, 


THE  SLAVE-SHIP;  AFRICA.  199 

And   one    broad    blaze,    intense    and    lurid, 

lies, 
Scorches   the    glassy   plain    and    melts    the 

skies. 

Within  the  offing  and  beneath  yon  bank, 
Where    steaming  jungle  swelters,  foul   and 

dank, 
There  the  black  ship  hangs  pendent  on  the 

tide, 

Without  one  swell  to  lift  her  lazy  side, 
No  wonted  sounds  proclaim,  with  cheerful 

din, 

A  stirring,  eager,  warlike  world  within, 
But  mute    and    haggard,    listless    creatures 

creep, 

And  throw  a  vacant  glance  across  the  deep, 
Hang    o'er   the    rail,  beneath    the    awning's 

shade, 

And  muse  in  silence  on  their  dreadful  trade. 
Below  those  hatches,  whence  the  tainted  air 
Springs,  a  foul  column,  in  the  noonday  glare, 
Are  sights  the  soul  turns  loathing  from  and 

faint, 

And  all  that  shrinking  pity  cannot  paint; 
Such  as  might  quench  the  accursed  thirst  of 

gold, 
And  only  avarice  coldly  dares  behold. 


200  POEMS. 

Above,  a  vulture  flaps  her  leaden  wings, 
Scents   the   keen   joy   her   nightly    banquet 

brings, 

In  lessening  circles  wheels  her  drowsy  way, 
And  screams,  impatient,  for  the  coming  prey. 
Beneath,  the  hateful  and  ill-omened  shark 
Attends,    a    constant    guest,    the    friendly 

barque, 

Turns  up  his  ghastly  maw,  in  eager  haste 
The  floating  oak's  discovered  freight  to  taste, 
Rubs  his  fierce  jaws  against   her  sounding 

side, 

And  longs  to  hear  a  dash  upon  the  tide ; 
Till  now  the  rolling  wave  and  flapping  sail 
Announce    on    wonted    wings    the    evening 

gale ; 
The    anchor    comes    apeak,    and    with    the 

breeze 
She  gayly   springs  to  meet   the   freshening 

seas, 

And  as  she  dances,  like  a  joyful  thing, 
Hope  in    her  course,   and   freedom   on    her 

wing, 
What    hearts    are    theirs,    through    ocean's 

living  foam 
With  freight  like  this  to  mix  the  thought 

of  home ! 


LETTER  FROM  CITY  TO  COUNTRY.      201 


LETTER   FROM   THE   CITY  TO  THE 
COUNTRY. 

DEAR  SUE,  I'm  arrived  in  the  city, 

And  what  do  you  think  I  have  done  ? 
Looked  up  all  the  things  that  are  pretty  ? 

Beaux,  bonnets,  fans,  ribbons,  and  fun. 
Ah  no,  my  dear  love,  no  such  folly  — 

These  things  I  no  longer  adore, 
Xew  light  has  now  dawned  on  your  Polly, 

And  she  votes  her  old  idols  a  bore. 

Oh,  my  dear !  what  a  sweet  revolution 

Is  soon  coming  off,  as  they  say ; 
Social  life  has  been  proved  an  illusion 

And  old  things  have  all  had  their  day. 
I  was  told  this  was  nature's  intention, 

By  the  loveliest  socialist  man, 
Who    said    things    which    I    don't   care   to 
mention  — 

But  they  all  enter  into  the  plan. 

They've  found  that  this  much-lauded  Reason 
After  all  is  but  shallow  pretence,  — 

That  our  instincts  we  always  must  seize  on, 
And  deem  impulse  our  only  good  sense. 


202  POEMS. 

Tims,  by  instinct  the  bee  makes  his  honey, 
Yet  not  for  himself  it  is  plain  ;  — 

Did  he  reason,  one  drop  for  no  money 
Should  we  ever  get  from  him  again. 

So  the  sheep  grows  his  fleece  for  another, 

And  the  bird  by  his  song  only  begs, 
From   his   nest   that  wild   Dick,  your  dear 
brother, 

And  our  Tommy  may  pluck  out  the  eggs. 
Thus  pleasure  becomes  a  mere  duty, 

By  nature  and  instinct  made  clear, 
And  all  things  converted  to  beauty  — 

Quod  erat  demonstrandum,  my  dear. 

Perhaps  I  don't  make  the  whole  matter 

So  plain  as  I  wish  it  might  be, 
But  I  'm  only  just  learning  to  smatter 

Of  all  the  sweet  things  we  shall  see. 
To  explain,  as  you  know,  not  my  trade  is, 

The  convention  will  soon  do  it  all, 
By  the  masculine  sex's  old  ladies, 

Who  lack  only  bonnet  and  shawl. 

And  then,  only  think,  they  do  tell  us 

We  're  to  vote  and  to  train,  my  sweet  Sue  ! 

That  we   sometimes   train  now,   the  young 

fellows 
Dare  say,  and  perhaps  it  is  true. 


A   FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  203 

But  this  is  a  different  story ; 

We  're  to  march,  but  without  any  arms, 
Filles  du  regiment,  onward  to  glory, 

And  the  victory  owe  to  our  charms. 

If  our  country  should  e'er  be  invaded, 

Of  war  we  must  meet  the  dread  brunt, 
All  the  feminine  host  be  paraded, 

And  the  prettiest  girls  to  the  front. 
Ah,  then  will  be  seen,  though  the  fdeman 

Ferociously  threaten  the  war, 
How  victory  waits  upon  woman, 

And  still  love  be  the  conquering  star. 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE, 

TO  HON.  THOMAS  F.  BAYARD,  U.  S.  SENATOR  FROM 
DELAWARE.    1875. 

BAYARD,  whose  name  of  chivalry  the  pride, 
Since  on  the  field  its  great  exemplar  died, 
With  laurels  now  to  peaceful  victories  dear, 
Still  stands  untarnished  by  reproach  or  fear: 
Resolved  in  spirit,  and  to  honor  true, 
Thine  be  the  meed  to  stainless  patriots  due. 
Through   the   long   conflict   when    fraternal 

blood 
Swept  o'er  the  land  in  many  a  guilty  flood ; 


204  POEMS. 

When   tyrant   Power   askance   pale    Justice 

eyed, 

And  fettered  Law  wept  silent  by  her  side  ; 
When  Faction  reared   on   high  her  serpent 

crest, 

Advanced  the  mean  and  sacrificed  the  best ; 
Scoffed  at  the  memory  of  our  father's  graves, 
And   in   the    name    of    freedom    made   men 

slaves,  — 

Unmoved  by  clamor  that  the  coward  awes, 
Thou  stood'st  superior  for  the  good  old  cause ; 
That  cause  eternal,  since  first  human  wrong 
The  weak  made  subject  and  oppression  strong. 
As   the   brave   oak,    whose    boughs   though 

tempests  thin, 

Still  bears  whole  fleets  its  sturdy  breast  with 
in, 

While  the  lithe  willow  shivers  in  the  blast, 
And  bends  and  breaks,  a  thing  of  shreds  at 

last. 

War   palliates   crime,  'tis  said,  though   con 
science  pleads 
With   sad,  low   voice   for   every  heait    that 

bleeds, 

When  battle's  triumph  on  the  sanguine  plain 
Leads  far  worse  ruin  in  its  haggard  train  : 
Fire,  rapine,  murder,  famine,  lust,  —  the  all 
Of  direst  ills  that  gentle  minds  appall. 


A   FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  205 

Yet  not  all  evil;  for  'mid  war's  alarms 
Home  thoughts  will  rise,  with  soft,  endearing 

charms, 

Of  wife,  child,  parent,  sweetheart,  far  away, — 
Those  whom  we  love,  who  love  for  us  to  pray; 
And  noblest  actions  oft  will  lend  their  grace, 
Like  flowers  luxuriant  in  a  rugged  place, 
To  warrior  breasts,  when  men  with  heart  and 

hand 

Are  ranged  embattled  for  their  native  land: 
Of  self  regardless,  hurt  by  other's  pains, 
His  whom  Mount  Vernon's  hallowed  tomb 

contains ; 

A  Sidney,  to  the  dying  soldier's  lip 
Proffering  the  draught  his  own  had  longed 

to  sip ; 
Or   brave    McClellan,    crossed   by   wayward 

fate, 

Called  at  the  last  extreme  to  save  the  state ; 
P\>iled  first  by  treacherous  counsels  in  his  rear, 
When  Faction,  dreader  far  than  hosts  more 

near, 
Sworn  that  his  march  no  conquest   should 

secure, 
Robbed  him  of  arms  that  would  have  made  it 

sure ; 

Victor  at  last,  his  laurels  torn  away, 
Of  base  cabal  the  victim  and  the  prey, 


206  POEMS. 

Another  Rubicon  before  his  eyes, 
Disdained  magnanimous  the  guilty  prize  ; 
Questioned  his  heart  in  patriot  virtue  strong, 
Made  law  his  law,  and  nobly  bore  the  wrong. 

But,   oh !    when   Peace    resumes   its   holiest 

reigri, 

And  hostile  brethren  might  be  friends  again, 
Say,  should  the  great  Republic,  firmer  grown 
By  the  sharp  strife  within  her,  —  with  her 

own, 

Her  own  rash  children,  in  the  world's  applause 
Rebels  owned  heroes  for  their  ruined  cause; 
Lee,  dead   heart-broken   for   the   field   they 

lost, 

And  stalwart  Jackson,  harnessed,  at  his  post; 
Say,  should  she  deal  the  fallen  a  needless 

blow, 
Proclaim  V^E  VICTIS  !  —  TO  THE  CONQUERED 

WOE? 

Ride  like  a  Vandal  victor  o'er  the  plain, 
The  dead  to  trample,  and  re-slay  the  slain  ? 
Or  seize  the  precious  moment  to  efface 
Of  war's  foul  canker  every  festering  trace  ? 
In  realms,  none  lovelier  that  the  journeying 

sun, 
Through   all    his   wondrous    circuit,   looked 

upon  ; 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE. 

Bid  prostrate  towns  revive  from  ruin's  verge, 
See  prostrate  men  to  manlier  life  emerge, 
And  freshening  fields  like  gardens  deck  the 

wild, 
forlorn   where  once  the  burdening   harvest 

smiled ; 

Her  aliened  sons,  returning  to  her  side, 
Clasped  now  with  more  than  old  maternal 

pride, 

And  leagued  with  brothers  on  a  hostile  field, 
Against  a  world  in  arms  her  spear  and  shield. 

Such  thoughts  were  thine  and  theirs,  whose 
generous  hope, 

Bounded  within  no  party's  narrow  scope, 

Hailed  the  proud  Union  to  itself  restored, 

And  claimed  the  grace  its  greatness  dared 
afford. 

Even  Grant  felt  this,  when  by  the  James's 
banks 

Lee  rendered  up  his  half-starved  dwindled 
ranks, 

And  noble  souls,  the  comrades  of  his  power, 

Softened  the  promptings  of  stern  victory's 
hour. 

But,  oh !  the  change  when  that  cold  schem 
ing  crew. 

The  pest  of  nations  to  themselves  untrue, 


208  POEMS. 

The  greedy  placemen  foully  set  on  high, 
Through  lowest   arts   that   lure    the  vulgar 

eye, 

In  power  imperious,  and  to  self  so  prone, 
They  count  the  public  pocket  for  their  own ; 
Who  heard  the  whisper  of  a  South  restored 
Like  the  low  summons  to  a  funeral  board ; 
Sent  forth   the    carpet-bagman's   horse-leech 

brood, 
To  scatter   firebrands  —  for   their   country's 

good ; 

Made  him  their  tool,  the  soldier  who  could  call 
Late    foes  new  friends,   by  Richmond's  lea- 

guered  wall. 

For  since,  in  reason's  view,  their  party  sway 
Bore  on  its  front  the  signs  of  swift  decay, 
These  self-styled  patriots  round  the  country 

raved, 

To  save  a  Union,  by  its  arms  well  saved ; 
Their  novel  mode  that  Union  to  cement, 
Of  parts  self-joining  to  enlarge  the  rent ; 
With  specious   pretexts   propping   up    their 

cause, 

Weighed  down  by  fictions  of  unequal  laws, — 
Laid  out  vile  schemes,  contrived  of  force  and 

fraud,  — 
The  soldier  here,  the  bagman  all  abroad, 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  209 

Quick  to  invade,  yet  sure  to  sneak  away 
Before  comes  retribution's  fatal  day ; 
His  shrewd  prevision  against  showery  blasts 
To  make  his  harvest  while  the  sunshine  lasts. 
And   the    coarse    negro,   just  from  bondage 

freed,  — 
The    vote    he    renders    could    he    learn    to 

read !  — 
Struts   to    the    polls,    with   head   and   heart 

elate, 

To  hold  the  balance  of  a  nation's  fate  ! 
Till  right  reversed,  and  uppermost  the  wrong, 
Confusion  blinds,  and  folly  leads  the  throng ; 
And  fearful  spirits  in  the  murmuring  wind 
Hear  prophet  tones  of  direr  woes  behind. 

Thus    venal     statesmen    ply    their     hollow 

trade, 

Worthy  the  sense  and  morals  of  Jack  Cade ; 
Until,  as  erst  in  Rome's  declining  day, 
The  consul  styled  bore  a  dictator's  sway  : 
Ere   shone   at   length   on   history's   dubious 

page 

The  lurid  light  of  an  Augustan  age, 
And  after  years  beheld  the  fitful  blaze 
Of  the  old  glory  through  time's  misty  haze ; 
And  thus  our  modest  magistrate-in-chief, 
Who  deems  accustomed  limits  far  too  brief, 


210  POEMS. 

Scarce  graced  with  gift  of  words  men's  hearts 

to  touch, 
It   seems,  like  Csesar's   Cassius,   thinks   too 

much, 

Aspires  to  drag  in  chains  his  servile  "  Ring," 
And  be  in  all  but  name  our  western  King ! 

Such   the    long    trial,    dark   with    troubled 

scenes, 

Of  public  burdens  grinding  private  means  ; 
Of  wild  finance,  and  impotent  delay 
Just    debts    incurred   with    honest    coin    to 

pay; 

States  crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  lawless 

might ; 

A  mongrel  rule  enforced  of  black  and  white ; 
Veiling  base  purposes  with  false  pretence, 
Alien  to  nature,  truth,  and  common-sense : 
Fraudful    to    use    their    country's    hapless 

hour, 

To  make  perpetual  their  ill-gotten  power; 
Their  means  the  very  idol  they  despise, 
Place  to  maintain,  and  hold  each  plundered 

prize ; 

To  keep  the  great  republic's  glorious  name, 
But  change  its  substance  for  a  hollow  frame; 
Power  stealing  from  the  many  to  the  few, 
Just  as  of  yore  tyrannic  parties  grew: 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  ,  211 

To   make   their   factious   will    the    law   su 
preme,  — 
All    the    old    freedom    gone,  —  a   vanished 

dream,  — 

A  broken  Constitution  out  of  date, 
One  man  at  length  to  rule  and  be  the  State : 
Enough  to  stir  old  patriots  in  their  graves, 
That  their  own  children's  children  could  be 

slaves ! 
A  desperate  game  !  but  played  for  their  own 

sakes, 
Their  country's  fortunes  and  themselves  the 

stakes ! 

Then  the  '  progressive  '  party's  chosen  band 
Scattered  their  traitorous  murmurs  through 

the  land, 

Scouted  the  sovereign  people's  claim  to  rule, 
And  legends  taught  of  some  old  regal  school! 
"  Republics  long,"  they  cried,  "  had  lost  their 

soul ; 

Better  a  monarch's,  than  a  crowd's  control ! 
For  what  are  kings  but  patrons  glad  to  lend 
Substantial  gifts  to  every  solid  friend  ? 
Divided  States  no  common  ills  can  cure, 
A  central  nation  makes  our  safety  sure." 
Thus  civil  war  its  due  results  had  borne 
Of  weakened   minds   and   moral  sense   out 
worn, 


212  POEMS. 

And    many  a  fool  and  many  a   knave   pro 
fessed 

Such  salutary  revolution  best,  — 
To  raise  some  lucky  soldier  to  the  throne, 
Csesar  in  fact,  though  not  as  Caesar  known ; 
Till    downward   progress   soon  revealed  the 

lair 

Where  the  old  anarch  spread  his  fatal  snare. 
Thy  sober  voice,  from  council's  higher  seat, 
Denounced  the  folly  and  exposed  the  cheat, 
And  the  true  people,  roused,  obeyed  the  call, 
That  saved  the  tottering  nation  from  its  fall ! 

Through  weary  years,  drawn  out  beyond  the 

date 
Of  Troy's  proud  towers  and  temples  doomed 

to  fate, 

'Mid  storms  of  faction,  thine  the  nobler  strife 
To  wake  the  bleeding  land  to  fresher  life ; 
To  heal  the  wounds  by  war's  dread  struggles 

made, 

To  grasp  the  hand  that  held  a  hostile  blade  ; 
To 'make  the  lowliest  as  the  loftiest  feel 
Their  hope  concentred  in  the  common  weal ; 
Once  held  the  just  republic's  equal  scheme, 
A  glorious  vision,  if  it  were  a  dream  ! 
Leaving  to  meaner  minds  their  low  affairs, 
Their  false  ambitions  and  degrading  cares, 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE.  '2\'-\ 

Assured  that  parts  diseased  infect  the  whole, 
Thy  country's  ALL  engaged  thy  statesman's 
soul. 

Such  counsels  thine,  so  generous,  wise,  and 

true, 

To  nature,  reason,  virtue,  country  due  : 
For  nature,  steadfast  to  her  primal  plan, 
Marks  by  fixed  bounds  the  social  state  of 

man  ; 

Reason  rejects  philanthropy  abused 
That  makes  confusion's   jumble   worse   con 

fused  ; 

Virtue  revolts  good  morals  to  debase 
Through  mixed  superior  and  inferior  race; 
And  country  bound  by  every  claim  to  find 
Her  chosen  rulers  in  her  wiser  mind, 
That  holds  no  rule  by  wavering  conscience 

strained, 
A   "higher  law"  than  Heaven's  decree   or 

dained. 

Through  this  wild  turmoil,  when  vindictive 

rage 
Wrote    damning    records    on    our    history's 


Law  to  uphold,  to  reassure  the  right, 
And  foil  each  mean  device  of  party  spite, 


214  POEMS. 

When  Justice,  robed  within  her  sacred  pale, 
Saw  the  rough  soldier's  sword  depress  the 

scale  ; 

On  high  commission  to  explore  the  game, 
In  States  defrauded  of  their  sovereign  claim  ; 
Franchise  denied  to  men  of  sober  worth, 
Lavished  on  hireling  gangs,  —  the  dregs  of 

earth ; 
To  make  the  cheat,  the  force,  the  mockery 

plain, 

And  find,  alas  !  the  labor  all  in  vain ; 
Thy  stern   rebuke  in    calm   and  storm  was 

heard, 

And  pierced  the  future  like  a  prophet-word. 
Till  now,  when  Freedom  breathes  a  deepening 

sigh, 

Loath  to  depart,  yet  tempted  sore  to  fly, 
Thy  voice  indignant  swells  the  loud  appeal 
To  minds  that  think  allied  to  hearts  that  feel ; 
Now,  now,  when  ruffians  armed  have  dared 

intrude 
Where  grave  lawgivers  mould  the  common 

good; 

Stamp  with  rude  heel  the  floor  by  sages  trod, 
Like  Cromwell's  troopers,  at  their  master's 

nod ; 

Yet  to  be  taught  they  can  but  play  the  fool, 
In  precincts  sacred,  save  when  despots  rule. 


ARNAULT'S  WITHERED  LEAF.          215 

Hence,  O  my  friend,  while  yours  the  "  serious 

call " 

To  guide  a  nation  in  its  senate  hall, 
I,  musing  much,  from  such  high  duties  free, 
This  greeting  send  by  the  resounding  sea. 


ARNAULT'S  WITHERED  LEAF.1"5 

From  the  French. 

"  FROM  the  branch  that  bore  thee  torn, 
Whither,  poor  dry  leaf,  forlorn, 
Goest  thou ? "     "I  cannot  tell ; 
From  the  storm-struck  oak  I  fell ; 
That  was  my  support  alone  ; 
But  by  fickle  breezes  blown, 
Now  the  West  wind,  now  the  North, 
Since  that  day,  have  led  me  forth, 
From  forest  to  the  field,  at  will, 
To  the  valley,  from  the  hill ; 
Whither  wafts  their  breath  I  go, 
Nor  alarm  nor  trouble  know ; 
I  go  whither  all  things  tend, 
Where  the  rose-leaf  has  its  end, 
Where  the  laurel-wreaths  descend." 


216  POEMS. 


NATIONAL   HYMN. 

1856. 

GOD  bless  our  native  land  ! 
Confirm  its  wide  command, 

And  hope  sublime ; 
Fill  it  with  all  increase, 
Bid  every  discord  cease, 
Keep  all  its  States  in  peace, 

To  endless  time. 

His  blessing  wrought  our  power, 
Made,  in  the  favoring  hour, 

The  many  one ; 
Quelled  all  our  secret  foes, 
Guarded  from  open  blows, 
Restored  the  grand  repose, 

When  wars  were  done. 

God  bless  our  native  land ! 
Hold  fast  his  guiding  hand, 

Show  us  his  face  ; 
In  storm  and  doubt  and  fear 
Our  God !  thy  people  hear, 
Our  fathers'  God !  appear, 

And  grant  thy  grace  ! 


IMITATION  OF  HORACE.  217 


IMITATION   OF   HORACE. 

Quis  desklerio  sit  pudor,  etc.  — Lib.  I.,  Od.  xxiv. 

WHAT  time  can  bring  relief  - 
What  blame  reprove  our  grief? 

The  well-beloved  lies  low  ! 
The  funeral  strains  prolong, 

0  muse  of  tragic  song, 

With  liquid  voice  and  harp  attuned  to  woe ! 

Does,  then,  perpetual  sleep 

1  lold  him  !     And  make  us  weep 

In  vain  to  seek  through  earth, 
For  honor  so  unstained, 
Such  manly  truth  maintained, 

Such  glory  won  and  worn  by  modest  worth? 

By  all  the  good  deplored, 
Xo  tears  sincerer  poured, 

Than  fell  thine  own,  O  friend  ! 
Yet  pious  thou  in  vain, 
Claiming  for  earth  again 

Gifts,  which  kind  Heaven  on  110  such  terms 
will  lend. 

No  fond  desires  avail, 
Friendship's  deep  want  must  fail, 
Even  love's  devout  demand  ; 


218  POEMS. 

Inexorable  Death, 
Pledges  of  deathless  faith, 

Keeps  souls  once  gathered  to  the  shadowy 
land. 

And  oftenest  to  that  bourne 
They  pass,  nor  more  return, 

The  best  we  miss  the  most ; 
Hard  seems  the  stroke  of  fate,  — 
But  Heaven  bids  us  wait, 

And  there,  at  last,  rejoin  the  loved,  the  lost. 


"APPEAL." 

To  her  Grace,  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  and  other  ladies,  who  are 
preparing  an  "Appeal"  on  the  subject  of  slavery  (1854). 

YE  noble  British  ladies, 

"  Who  live  at  home  at  ease," 
How  less  than  little  do  you  know 

Of  things  this  side  the  seas. 
A  gloomy  shadow  o'er  the  deep 

Some  morbid  fancy  throws, 
And  straight,  what  pearls  are  in  your  eyes, 

That  fall  for  unfelt  woes ! 

Methinks,  the  while  your  gentle  minds 

Project  this  new  crusade, 
And  with  "Appeals"  to  flinty  hearts 

This  hapless  land  invade, 


"APPEAL."  210 

On  Georgia's  broad  savannas, 

By  Carolina's  streams, 
The  merry,  careless  negro  mocks 

Your  unsubstantial  schemes. 

Ah,  many  a  surly  freeman, 

In  many  an  English  cot, 
Who  gnaws  his  hard-wrung,  bitter  bread, 

Might  envy  him  his  lot ; 
No  starving  household  round  his  board, 

No  helpless,  hopeless  grief, 
To  which  nor  time,  nor  charity, 

Nor  law  can  bring  relief. 

No  doubt,  in  England's  lordly  halls, 

Consummate  virtue  dwells  ; 
And  "huts  where  poor  men  lie  "  are  sweet, 

By  vales  and  verdant  dells ; 
With  us,  this  "bright  improvement" 

"  The  car  of  Time  "  must  bring ; 
Your  virtue  blooms,  a  flower  matured, 

Ours  but  a  bud  of  Spring. 

Green  grows  the  grass  in  Erin's  isle, 
Where  houseless  wretches  sleep, 

Where  pines  the  toiling  artisan 
Earth's  common  breezes  sweep ; 


220  POEMS. 

And  all  heaven's  congregated  stars 

On  "  towered  cities  "  beam, 
Where  meagre  fingers  stitch  the  shirt 

By  the  midnight  taper's  gleam. 

Hold  back  the  "  stone,"  fair  ladies, 

Restrain  your  generous  glow, 
Nor  heed  the  sad  and  silly  stuff 

Retailed  by  Mrs.  Stowe  ; 
Her  feverish  sheet  as  justly 

Your  Yankee  friends  portrays, 
As  "Wuthering  Heights,"  that  wicked  book, 

Your  rural  English  ways. 

And,  on  these  shores,  though  'twixt  us  rolls 

The  broad  Atlantic  wave, 
Are  hearts  as  true  to  human  woe, 

As  piteous  to  the  slave ; 
But  oh !  beyond  the  griefs  you  mourn 

Looms  many  a  darker  ill,  — 
And  thus  we  use  our  common  sense, 

And  trust  our  conscience  still. 

Ah,  fair  and  gentle  ladies, 

You  know  not  what  you  do ; 
'Mid  all  the  ills  you  seek  to  cure 

Perchance  are  blessings  too ; 


MBS.  GRUNDY. 


Dread,  lest  your  gifts  be  like  that  one, 

Ere  human  woes  began, 
Wherewith  your  primal  ancestress 

Betrayed  and  ruined  man  ! 


MRS.  GRUNDY. 

IF  I  should  have  a  call  on  Sunday 

From  that  old  gossip,  Mrs.  Grundy, 

I  'd  surely  put  her  by  till  Monday, 

Then  send  her  off,  since  'tis  the  "dun-day." 

Since  next  in  order  would  be  Tuesday, 

I'd  say,  "Why,  don't  you  know  'tis  news- 

day?" 

I  would  not  see  her,  sure,  on  Wednesday, 
Her  tattle  is  not  fit  for  "  friends'-day  ;  " 
And  if  she  came  again  on  Thursday, 
I  'd  say,  "  There  could  not  be  a  worse  day 
Nor  could  I  hear  you,  ma'am,  on  Friday, 
Which  churchmen  count  a  sort  of  dry-day  ; 
And  as  to  listening  on  Saturday, 
No  nonsense  suits  that  busy  latter-day." 


222  POEMS. 


CIVIL  WAR  ANTICIPATED. 

IT  comes,  like  the  tempest  that  startles  the 

morning, 
Where  summer  smiled  blooming  in  beauty 

before, 
And  falls  on  our  hearts  with  a  wail,  like  the 

warning 
Of  pestilence  borne  o'er  the  wave  to  the 

shore ! 
Mourn,  mourn,  O   my  country,  thy   young 

beaming  glory, 
That  ushered  to  earth  the  pure  light  of  its 

story  ? 

The  flush  of  thy  youth  dimmed  with  treach 
eries  hoary ; 

Alas,  for  the  promise  of  ages  to  be  ! 
When  dismay   clouds  with    darkness    the 
land  of  the  free. 

Ah,  sad  be  the  hour,  when  the  honor  that 

cherished 
Thy  greatness  and  glory  with  them  shall 

decay, 
The  hopes  of  the  world  clustered  round  tliee 

all  perished, 

And  freedom  that  blazed  on  thy  dawn  fades 
away ; 


CIVIL   WAR  ANTICIPATED.  223 

When  faction,  its  schemes  of  destruction  pur 
suing, 

And  foes  to  thy  peace  plot  to  work  thy  un 
doing, 
While  friends  thou  hast  trusted  consent  to 

thy  ruin ;  — 

Alas,  for  the  promise  of  ages  to  be  ! 
When  shame  darkens  down  on  the  land 
of  the  free. 

For  wild  through  the  future  where  clouds  are 

upheaving, 
The  herald  of  wrath  rears  his  war-lighted 

brand ; 

To  tears  the  ungrateful  our  Genius  is  leav 
ing, 

And  the  blood  of  her  children  shall  crim 
son  the  land: 
Then,  cowards  and  traitors  shall  look  on  the 

vision, 

And  tyrants  and  anarchs  laugh  loud  in  de 
rision, 

And  lost  be  forever  high  liberty's  mission  ;  — 
Alas,  for  the  promise  of  ages  to  be  ! 
When  darkened  with  shame  sinks  the  land 
of  the  free ! 


224  POEMS, 


THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL.16 

Literally  translated. 

MELIBCEUS.     TITYEUS. 

MELIBCEUS. 

TITYRUS,  you  in  the  shade  of  the  wide-spread 

beech-tree  reclining,  — 
Your  rustic  lay,  attuned  to  the  slender  pipe, 

are  composing ; 
Our  country's  bounds  and  pleasant  fields  we 

leave  behind  us  ; 
Our  country  we  flee  from,  while  you  in  the 

shade,  O  my  Tityrus, 
Teach  the  wood,  at  your  ease,  the  name  of 

the  fair  Amaryills, 

TITYRUS. 

O  Melibo3iis,  a  god  all  this  security  gave  me ; 

For  to  me  will  he  be  a  god  ever ;  often  his 
altar 

The  blood  of  the  tender  lamb  from  our  own 
sheep-folds  shall  moisten. 

It  was  he  who  allowed,  as  you  see,  my  oxen 
to  loiter, 

And  me  on  this  rustical  pipe  to  play  what 
ever  strains  pleased  me. 


THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL.        225 
MELIBCEUS. 

I  do  not  grudge  it  to  you.  I  only  woi;der, 
on  all  sides 

Disturbed  as  the  country  is ;  and  see,  here 
am  I  so  sadly 

Driving  my  herd  far  away,  this  she-goat  pain- 
full}^  leading ; 

For  here,  only  now,  her  twins  on  the  bare 
rock  delivered, 

The  hope  of  the  flock,  she  left,  ah,  left  among 
the  thick  hazels. 

Often  this  ill  (if  then  my  wits  had  been 
clearer) 

Now  I  recall  how  the  oaks  struck  with  light 
ning  predicted ; 

Often  the  boding  crow  from  the  hollow  holm- 
tree  foretold  it. 

But,  Tityrus,  this  god  of  yours  —  tell  us 
something  about  him. 

TITYRTJS. 

Once,  •Meliboeus,  I  thought  that  Rome,  the 

city  they  name  so, 
Foolishly   thought   like    this  town    of  ours, 

whither  so  often 
We  shepherds  are  wont  to  drive  down  our 

lambs  for  a  market. 


226  POEMS. 

Just  as  whelps  are  like  dogs  full-grown,  like 

its  dam  as  the  kidiing, 
So  knew  I  the  truth,  using  small  things  with 

great  ones  to  measure. 
But   Rome    raises    her   head   exalted    above 

other  cities 
As   high   over   creeping   shrubs   stand  lofty 

cypresses  towering. 

MELIBCEUS. 

But  tell  me,  for  seeing  Rome  what  was  your 
special  occasion? 

TITYRUS. 

Liberty  moved  me,  but  late,  and  regarded  me 

still  though  so  sluggish, 
Even  after  my  beard  whitening  fell  under  the 

clipping ; 
Liberty  cast  back  her  glance  and  after  long 

time  she  came  to  me, 
Since  Amaryllis  lived  with  me,  and  Galatea 

departed. 

For  I  must  needs  confess,  that  Galatea  en 
chained  me, 
I  had  little  care  for  freedom  and  of  my  affairs 

took  as  little. 
What  though  many  a  victim  went  duly  from 

my  inclosures, 


THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL.       227 

And  cheeses  ever  so  rich  were  pressed  for  the 
thankless  city, 

Never,  then,  my  right-hand  came  home  over 
burdened  with  money. 

MEL1BCEUS. 

I  wondered  why  so  sad  you  invoked  the  godj, 

Amaryllis ! 
For  whose  dear  sake  it  could  be  on  the  tree 

you  left  your  apples  ; 
Tityrus  was  away ;  and  "  Tityrus,"  cried  she, 

"  the  pine-trees, 
And  these  very  fountains  call  you  loud  to 

come  home,  and  these  orchards." 

TITYRUS. 

What  could  I  do  ?  Never  there  could  I  cast 
off  my  bondage, 

Nor,  except  at  Rome,  approach  powers  di 
vinely  propitious. 

There  saw  I  him,  the  youth,  for  whom  in 
each  year,  Meliboeus, 

One  day,  eve,ry  month,  our  altars  shall  smoke 
in  his  honor ; 

There  this  word,  at  once,  he  vouchsafed  to 
my  supplication  — 

"  Feed  your  cattle,  as  before,  lads,  and  yoke 
up  your  bullocks." 


228  POEMS. 


MELTBCEUS. 

O  lucky  old  man !  your  fields  will  still  be 

your  portion ; 
And  quite  large  enough  is  the  farm ;  though 

a  rocky  barren  may  bound  it, 
And  the  swamp  with  its  slimy  bulrush  may 

spread  over  other  pastures, 
No  unaccustomed  fodder  the  languid  breeders 

shall  injure, 
Nor  the  ills  of  neighboring  flocks  affect  them 

with  contagion. 
You  will  enjoy  the   cooling  shade,  old  man 

blest  by  fortune  ! 
Among  these  familiar  streams  and  consecrated 

fountains. 

Here  shall   the  hedge,  that  stands  the  con 
tiguous  landmark, 
Where  ever  Hyblsean  bees  feed  on  the  flower 

of  the  willow, 
Often  lull  and  invite  you  to  sleep  with  its 

gentle  murmurs; 

There,  beneath  the  high  rock  shall  the  vine 
dresser  sing  to  the  zephyrs, 
Nor   shall    the    wood-pigeons,   your   delight, 

cease  their  cooing, 
Nor  the  turtle-dove  fail  to  moan  from  the  top 

of  the  elm-tree. 


THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE   OF  VIRGIL. 


TITYKUS. 

Sooner,  therefore,  nimble  stags  in  air  shall 

seek  pasture, 
And  the  straits  leave  their  fish  to  live  on  the 

dry  strand  uncovered ; 
Sooner,    wandering    both,    from    their    own 

country's  confines  exiled, 
Of  Araris  Parthians  shall  drink,  of  Tigris  the 

German, 
Than  shall  be  effaced  his  image,  on  my  heart 

deeply  imprinted. 

MELIBCETJS. 

But  as  for  us,  some  must  go  hence  to  Afric 

the  thirsty, 
To  Scythia  some,  or  the  swift  stream  of  Crete, 

Oaxes, 
Or  isles  of  the  Britons,  from  all  the  world 

wholly  divided. 
Ah,    even    after   long   years   shall  I  see  my 

country's  borders  ? 
Behold  here  the  turf-covered  roof  of  my  poor 

little  cottage? 
See  and  admire  my  old  home,  when  harvest 

has  followed  on  harvest  ? 
Shall  the  brutish  soldier  then  possess  these 

so  well-tended  fallows  ? 


230  POEMS. 

The  alien  have  my  crop  ?     Ah,  whither  does 

civil  discord 
The  wretched  people  lead,  sowing  fields  for 

just  such  creatures ! 
Ah,  poor  Meliboeus !  graft  your  pears,  and  set 

vines  in  order  I 
Come,  come,  my  once  happy  flock,  let  us  now 

be  on  our  journey ; 
Never  more,  hereafter,  shall  I,  stretched  by 

the  mossy  cavern, 
Watch  you  far  away  on  some  shrub-covered 

rock  seem  hanging ; 
I  sh%all  sing  no   more  songs  ;    nor  will  you 

under  me,  your  shepherd, 
Nibble  the  flowery  heather,  or  browse  on  the 

bitter  willows. 

TITYRUS. 

Hark  you,  to  rest  with  me  overnight  would 

be  the  best  for  you, 
You  shall  sleep  on  fresh  boughs,  and  I've 

some  very  ripe  mild  apples, 
Mealy  chestnuts,  and  cheese  of  the  choicest 

kind  in  plenty ; 
And  now,  see  the   chimneys  of  the  distant 

farmhouses  smoking, 
And  out  from  the  lofty  hills  the  lengthened 

shadows  are  stretching. 


SONNET.  231 


SONNET. 

ROBERT  C.  WINTHROP. 

WIXTHRO.P,  the  heir  of  a  descended  fame, 
In  private  worth  and  public  virtue  known. 
Since  your  good  ancestor  a  leader  shone 
With  those  who  bore  the  Pilgrims'  honored 

name,  — 

Count  it  no  loss  that  now  thy  well-won  claim, 
By  manly  service,  wrought  with  heart  and 

hand, 

Must  yield  its  vantage  to  the  veering  gale,  — 
Thus  yield  (since  neither  thine  the  wrong 

nor  shame), 

As  the  best  pilot,  when  the  treacherous  land 
Lies  on  his  lee,  more  closely  hauls  his  sail 
Against  the  adverse   breeze,   and  quits   the 

shore, 

And  battles  bravely  on  the  open  main, 
With  wind  and  beating  sea,  till  soon  again 
The    heavens   propitious    smile,    and    all    is 

bright  once  more, 


232  POEMS. 


WASHINGTON. 

This  Sonnet  was  prepared  and  read  at  the  Inauguration 
of  the  statue  of  Washington,  erected  at  Newburyport,  at  the 
expense  of  Mr.  Daniel  Tenney,  of  New  York,  a  native  of  New 
buryport. 

THROUGHOUT  the  world,  among  the  sons  of 

men, 
What  fame  like  thine,  beyond  the  reach  of 

time  ? 

Heroes  and  kings,  by  history's  supple  pen, 
Emblazoned  stand,  too  oftenest  known  for 

crime ; 

But  thy  pure  record,  generous  and  sublime, 
Reveals  nor  stain  nor  blot  the  light  to  mar, 
Which  shines  through  all  those  living  lines, 

that  show 

How  honest  duty  was  thy  guiding  star ; 
In  the  hard  present  patient,  and  afar 
Seeing  the  glorious  future's  radiant  bow ; 
Great  in  the  field,  and  in  the  chair  of  State, 
Won  for  thy  country's  honor,  simply  Great ! 
Thy  country  hailed  thee  chiefest  citizen, 
The  world  proclaimed,  "  Behold  the  chief  of 

Men ! " 


CALEB   GUSHING.  233 


HON.  CALEB    GUSHING. 

Attorney-General  of  the  United  States,  Commissioner  to  China, 
Ambassador  to  Spain,  Commissioner  between  the  United  States 
and  Great  Britain,  etc.  Read  at  his  obsequies  at  Xewburyport. 

FEW  men  more  versatile  have  played  their 

part 

On  the  world's  shifting  stage  ;  not  even  he 
Whom  glorious  Dryden,  with    consummate 

art, 

Portrayed  as  "  all  mankind's  epitome  !  " 
Jurist  profound,  and  in  affairs  of  State 
Of  counsel  apt ;  a  tried  diplomatist, 
Spain,  China,  England,  felt  his  power  insist 
Upon  his  country's  cause ;  in  strong  debate 
His  fervid  spirit  led  the  fiery  van ; 
This  scholar,  versed  in  tongues,  this  earnest 

man, 

By  studious  toil  who  won  the  title  "  Great," 
A  stormy  course  for  Fame's  proud  guerdon 

ran. 
Through  years  not  oft  vouchsafed  to  human 

kind 
Still  grandly  towered  the  strength  of  Cush- 

ing's  mind ! 


234  POEMS. 


HUMBOLDT. 

JUDGED  by  some  shallow  disbeliever's  rule, 
Illustrious    Humboldt    lived    and    died  —  a 

fool ! 

No  wiser  in  his  state,  or  in  his  skill, 
Than  the  poor  laboring  ant  upon  its  hill ; 
Within  that  narrow  circle  only  wise, 
Earth's  chief  concern  foregone,  and  all  the 

skies. 
If  thus    the    mind,   that   mastered   Nature's 

law, 
No    Mind   Supreme    that    framed   its   order 

saw, 

The  poorest  implement  of  human  art 
Than  boasted  reason  better  plays  its  part. 
That   serves   its   end;    but    this,    perversely 

blind, 
The  height  attains  where  dawn  might  clear 

the  mind, 

But  downward  looks  on  every  step  it  wins, 
And    shuts    its    eyes    just    where    the   day 

begins ! 


A   STATESMAN.  235 


A    STATESMAN. 

JOHN  QUIXCY   ADAMS. 

STAUNCH  at  thy  post,  to  meet  life's  common 

doom, 

It  scarce  seems  death  to  die  as  thou  hast  died  ; 
Thy  duty  done,  thy  truth,  strength,  courage, 

tried, 

And  all  tilings  ripe  for  the  fulfilling  tomb ! 
A  crown  would  mock  thy  hearse's  sable  gloom, 
Whose    virtues   raised   thee    higher    than    a 

throne ; 
Whose  faults  were  erring  Nature's,  not  his 

own. 
Such  be  thy  sentence,  writ  with  Fame's  bright 

plume, 
Amongst  the  good  and  great ;  for  thou  wast 

great, 
In  thought,  word,  deed,  —  like  mightiest  ones 

of  old - 
Full  of  the  honest  truth  which  makes  men 

bold  ; 
Wise,  pure,  firm,  just ;  the  noblest  Roman's 

state 

Became  not  more  a  Ruler  of  the  Free, 
Than    thy    plain    life,   high    thoughts,    and 

matchless  constancy. 


236  POEMS. 


G.  B.  M. 

BOUND    TO    SEA. 

Jan.  25,  1865. 

STAUNCH  be  the  bark  that  bears  you  from 

the  land 
You   loved,   but    adverse    Fate    forbade    to 

save ; 

Firm  to  confront  the  buffets  of  the  wave, 
And  guarded  safe  from  every  noxious  strand, 
Fair  be  the  gales  that  waft  her !  to  the  hand 
Of  the  Great  Ruler  of  the  shore  and  sea 
We   trust  the   precious  charge ;    might  you 

yet  be 
Graced  with  your  country's  hopes  and  high 

command ! 
Ungrateful    country!    once   the   proud    and 

free, 
As    you    would    have   it;    and    in    coming 

years, 
Through  the  long  train  of  woes  and  ills  and 

tears, 

Yet  to  redeem  its  glorious  destiny. 
Brave,  true,  upright !    perchance  your  riper 

age 
Will  write  her  record  on  its  brightest  page. 


W.  W.   CORCORAN.  237 


W.  W.  CORCORAN. 

On  his  removal  of  the  remains  of  John  Howard  Payne  from  Tunis 
lo  tho  United  States,  for  burial  under  an  appropriate  monument, 
provided  by  Mr.  Corcoran  at  Washington. 

THE  noblest  heart  enshrined  in  human  breast 
Conceived  this  generous  thought ;  o'er  dis 
tant  seas, 
From  barbarous  climes,  dead  relics  such  as 

these 

To  bring  within  his  native  soil  to  rest ! 
No  statesman's  ashes,  and  no  hero's  crest 
Claimed    this  high  tribute  from   a  princely 

soul ; 
A    poet's    shade    long    hovered    round    the 

knoll, 
Where    scarce    a   foot    the    sacred    ground 

imprest ; 

But  in  a  million  million  homes  of  love, 
Each  hall  and  cottage  oft  resumed  his  strain, 
And    east,    west,    north,    and    south,    where 

exiles  rove, 

Thrilled  on  the  sad,  sad  sea,  or  lonely  plain ; 
Till  round  the  world  renewed,  where  pilgrims 

roam, 
From  hill  to  vale  re-echoes  "Home,  Sweet 

Home ! " 


238  POEMS. 


SONNETS. 

PLURALITY  OF  WORLDS. 

I  KNOW  not  if  those  wondrous  orbs  of  light 
Which  gaze  upon  us,  like  immortal  eyes, 
And  with  their  sweet  looks  cheer  the  dark 
ling  skies, 
What  time  the  shadowy  hours  lead  on  the 

night, 

Their  courses  keep,  impenetrably  bright, 
For  worlds  and  beings  of  another  birth 
Than  we  and  ours,  or  only  shed  on  earth 
Infinite  loveliness  and  deep  delight ; 
Either  were  fit ;  but  though  beyond  all  sight, 
Glorious  they  fill  immeasurable  space, 
Enough  that  when  He  sought  earth's  ruined 

race, 

His  heralds  they,  along  the  empyreal  height, 
And  they  his  glittering  pavement  when  he 

trode 

His  path  triumphant  home,  through  heaven's 
resplendent  road. 


ST.  ANDREW'S  CHURCH. 
[Hanover,  Plymouth  County,  Massachusetts,  A.D.  1725-1883.] 

As  in  Egyptian  cerements  dark  and  cold 
The  grain  of  wheat  long  ages  can  survive, 


BISHOP  EASTBURN.  239 

And  newly  planted  in  fresh  earth  will  live 
To  thrust  its  bearded  stalk  from  virgin  mould, 
So  in  this  rigid  soil  our  church  of  old 
A  century  slumbered  ;  but  Faith's  vital  seed 
Kept  life  in  death:  and  in  its  hour  of  need 
The  Heavenly  Shepherd  watched  his  feeble 

fold; 

Nor  art,  nor  violence  of  bigot  foes 
Could  check  the  pious  hope  that  winged  the 

soul, 

Till  in  heaven's  face  this  decent  temple  rose, 
And  on  God's  altar  flamed  its  living  coal ; 
Still  the  good  pastor  fans  the  fervid  glow 
Lit  from  that  spark,  how  many  a  year  ago ! 


KT.  REV.  MAXTOX  EASTBURX,  D.D., 

Bishop  of  Massachusetts. 

HE  was  a  man !     In  form  and  mind  and  soul 
As   few  who   wear   the   shape   deserve    the 

name ; 

And  his  great  title  to  that  generous  claim 
Was  his  fulfilment  of  true  manhood's  whole. 
A  Gospel  priest,  his  heart  and  lip  the  coal 
From    God's    high    altar   warmed ;    faithful, 

devout 

His  sacred  place  within  ;  to  things  without 
I 'sing  the  world  above  the  world's  control. 


240  POEMS. 

Of  good  report  a  Bishop ;  from  his  side 
Malicious  shafts  fell  harmless ;  in  his  mien 
Genial  as  charity;  behind  no  screen 
He  walked ;  in  open  ways  he  lived  and  died. 
How  missed  his  look,  his  speech,  his  cordial 

hand ! 
How  mourned  by  all  the  good !     Blest  will 

his  memory  stand ! 


RELIGION. 

"  DENY  thyself ;  "  what  is  it  to  deny  ? 
Ask  thine  own  heart  and  its  unhallowed  fires ; 
To  sacrifice  thyself  and  thy  desires 
Is  but  to  bid  thine  evil  nature  die ; 
To  quell  thy  dearest  foe ;  thy  worst  ally 
Shake,  like  a  traitor,  off ;  the  hold  of  sin 
Victorious  as  a  conqueror  to  win  ; 
To  man  the  citadel  for  God,  bid  fly 
Christ's  banner  on  the  rampart ;  to  keep  out 
Hell  and  its  fiery  host,  and  to  escape 
Remorse,    shame,    dread,    and   every    fearful 

shape, 
The  heart's  temptation  and  the  mind's  wild 

doubt ; 

To  be  Night's  watchman,  but,  with   heaven 
ward  eyes, 
Harnessed  and  waiting  for  the  orient  skies. 


PHILOSOPHY.  241 


PHILOSOPHY. 

I  LOOKED,  last  night,  upon  the  burning  stars ; 
The  firmament  was  full  of  living  light, 
Glory  and  beauty ;  and  the  sapphire  skies, 
JSTo  more  a  veil  of  mystic  loveliness, 
But  boundless  and  ethereal  space  immense, 
Eternal  spread,  and  through  the  Infinite 
Rolled  all  its  vast  Infinitude  of  worlds. 

This  flaming   arch,  that   bounds  the  visual 

orb, 

Faded  away ;  the  pillared  concave  broke  ; 
Uncurtained,  unpavilioned,  vast  and  wide, 
The   bourneless  gulf  profound ;  yet,  though 

nor  eye, 
Nor   thought    could    compass    the    amazing 

depths, 

Illimitable,  known  to  God  alone, 
My  soul,  in  space  immeasurable  poised 
In  disembodied  thought,  beheld  this  Earth, 
And  all  the  glorious  company  on  high, 
Orion  and  the  chambers  of  the  South, 
Arcturus  with  his  sons  and  Pleiades, 
Roll   pendent,    'mid    their   kindred   moving 

spheres, 
And  Faith  seemed  lost  in  siu'ht ! 


242  POEMS. 

From  thee,  O  God ! 

One  ray  of  simple  wisdom  lit  my  soul ; 
From    Thee,    least    understood,    but     most 

believed 
By   him,   who    best    surveys  thy    wondrous 

works ; 

By  him,  whose  spirit  still  in  search  of  Thee, 
Groping  no  more  upon  this  narrow  plain, 
But  an  Intelligence,  of  Thine  a  part, 
Discerns  enough  of  all  thy  glorious  scheme, 
To  prove  the  finite  mind  incapable 
To  know  of  thy  perfection  ;  yet  enough, 
To  show  Thou  did'st  create  and  must  uphold, 
In  wisdom,  power  and  goodness  unconceived ! 

Thus,  when  the  soul  hath  found  itself,  and 

dimmed 

By  no  false  medium,  fit  communion  holds 
Direct  with  Heaven  and  its  own  destiny,  — 
Then  looks  the  world,   to  the    unshadowed 

eye, 

The  nothing  that  it  is;  its  months,  its  years, 
Its  pomp,  pride,  pleasure,  vanity  and  show, 
Less  than  the  shrivelled  leaf  before  the  gale. 
But  this  existent  principle  within, 
This   living    thought,  this   life    that    cannot 

die, 
Suited  for  converse  with  angelic  hosts, 


PHILOSOPHY. 


Heaven's  holy  company  that  never  sinned, 
And  souls,  redeemed  by  Thee,  that  sin  no 

more, 

Owns  its  high  kindred,  with  an  instinct  sure, 
And  adoration  makes  its  chiefest  love  ; 
Since  up  to  Thee  the  spirit  may  aspire, 
And  can  but  find  Thee,  if  it  search  aright  ! 

Then  let  my  heart  seek  Thee  !     Be  it  enough 
That    Thou,    O    God!    through    this    whole 

Universe, 
Reignest  Supreme!     That  all  by  Thee   up 

held, 

All  in  Thy  sight,  from  the  remotest  world, 
Beyond  the  utmost  stretch  of  farthest  thought, 
To  the  least  atom  on  the  globe  we  tread, 
Is  Thine  ;  Thy  glorious  work,  Thy  constant 

care  ! 

Thy  rising  sun  comes  ushering  in  the  day  ; 
Thy  starry  band  unveils  the  lovely  night  ; 
It  is  Thy  brightness  when  the  flaming  North 
Its  wavy  streamers  to  the  zenith  flings  ; 
And    those  strange   visitants  which  nations 

dread, 

Whose  rapid  flight  along  the  blazing  sky 
Scatters  amazement  in  their  unknown  course, 
Thy  hand  controls,  Thy  wisdom  guides  them 

all. 


244  POEMS. 

So,  let  my  heart  be  still !     His  deep  designs 
I  may  not  fathom,  nor  presume  to  know ; 
In  his  own  time  this  rolling  world  may  fall, 
The  elements  with  fervent  heat  dissolve, 
The  shrinking  heavens  from  His  presence  flee, 
His  children  find  His  love,  His  foes  their  doom. 
But  till  His  voice  the  uttered  Fiat  speak, 
Nature    and   Time   will   stand;  the   spheres 

move  on ; 

The  lovely  seasons  change  ;  day  follow  day, 
Nor   chance    disturb    the    law   which    God 

ordained ! 

Shall  not,  then,  Earth,  rejoicing  that  He 
reigns, 

Stand  in  His  strength  secure?  Oh,  where 
fore  need 

Omens  and  warnings  through  the  frighted 
skies, 

Were  not  our  hearts  incredulous  and  blind  ? 

Nature  is  full  of  warnings !     Earth  and  sky 

Are  types  and  shadows  of  immortal  things! 

From  Winter's  torpid  sleep,  like  Nature's 
death, 

The  gradual  season  wakes  to  life  intense, 

And,  good  by  good  evolving,  as  it  moves, 

With  flower  and  fruit  consummate  crowns 
the  year. 


PHILOSOPHY.  24."> 

Nor   wise    his   heart,   that   may   not    thence 

deduce 

Nature's  own  teachings,  lessons  sweeter  far 
Than  Spring's  fair  bud,  or  Autumn's  perfect 

prize. 

This  slumber  that  invites  us  to  repose, 
And  locks  our  limbs  in  its  serene  embrace, 
Yet  often  leaves  the  spirit  free  to  roam 
Through   earth   and   heaven   and   hell's  pro 
found  abyss, 

Pictures  a  death  on  every  closing  day ; 
Yet  death  with  life  replete,  that  in  extinct, 
With  the  new  morn  but  freshens  and  expands. 
And  thou,  all-cheering  sun  !  who,  on  the  wave 
Minglest   the    blue   with  gold,   the    mottled 

cloud 
Clothest  with  brightness,  and  the  spangled 

earth 

With  every  hue  of  glory  and  delight ; 
Ye  stars,  that  rise    and    set ;    ye    springing 

flowers, 

That  dying  but  implant  new  seeds  of  life, — 
Oh,    if    we   were   but   wise,    far    less    than 

these, 
Nature's   most    common,    simplest,    meanest 

things, 

Were  to  our  hearts  prophetic,  as  when  earth, 
Convulsed  by  Him,  to  its  deep  centre  shakes ! 


240  POEMS. 

And  yet  we  will  not  learn.     Our  souls,  that 

might 

Pant  for  the  wings  of  seraphim  ;  on  earth, 
Once  paradise,  by  sin  our  prison  made, 
The  faint,  sweet  echoes  of  the  golden  harps 
From  bending  heaven  might  almost  hear,  — 

neglect 
The   light    within,    whose    beams    are    light 

indeed ; 

Live  in  the  outer  darkness ;  look  on  forms 
But  pierce  not  to  the  substance ;  and,  thus 

dull, 

If  Nature  kept  her  common  course;  the  day 
Following  the  day,  and  night  pursuing  night, 
The  constant  train  of  the  revolving  year 
Ever  the  same,  and  our  own  natural  death 
Closing,  by  turns,  our  most  insensate  life,  — 
More  stupid   than    the    ox   that   knows  his 

crib, 
We    might    forget    that   we   were    heirs   of 

heaven, 

God's  children,  by  a  Father's  providence 
Led  and  entreated  to  secure  the  skies ; 
Forget  our  souls,  be  of  the  clod  a  clod, 
Grovelling,  incapable  of  heaven  ! 

But  He 
Sends  the  dread  earthquake  and  the  fearful 

storm, 


PHILOSOPHY.  247 

Lightnings  and  tlumtlerings,  speaking  with 

His  voice, 
The    pestilence,    that    makes     the     nations 

faint, 
Famine's  fell  scourge  and  slaughter's  direful 

sword  ; 

Lights  the  volcano  with  its  signal  fire, 
Steers  the  wild  hurricane's  resistless  sweep, 
And  soul-addressed,  soul-wakening,  soul-con 
ceived, 

Makes  what  he  utters  on  the  sea-beat  shore 
Speak  ever  to  the  heart?  And,  kinder 

still, 

Since    Reason,    proud    of    its    domain,   pre 
sumes 

To  question  these  His  ways ;  and  habitude 
Perceives  no  present  God  in  all  His  works, 
His  portents  tell  of  Him  ;  His  flaming  arch 
At  midnight,  spans  the  startled  heaven;  He 

shakes 
Stars  from  their  spheres ;  His  blazing  meteors 

fly; 

And  the  strange  comet,  phantom  of  the  air, 
Far  off,  the  midway  sky  illuminates, 
And,    spectral,   speeds,   mysterious    and    un 
known  ! 

Awful  and  rare,  as  spirit-forms  that  glide 
When  He  permits,  along  this  lower  world, 


248  POEMS. 

To  shame   our  faithless   hearts,   in  reason's 

spite ; 

If  seen  more  frequent,  and  familiar  grown, 
Powerless,  perchance,    as   Nature's    marvels 

now, 

To  link  with  Heaven  our  unbelieving  souls, 
That  trust  not  things  miraculous  as  these  ; 
And,  if  permitted  oft,  would  scarce  receive 
An  embassy  commissioned  from  the  grave ! 

Yet  were  our  hearts  more  pure,  the  worship 

held 

More  than  the  temple,  and  our  spirits  strong 
Ourselves  to  master;    then  we  still    might 

hear 

His  voice,  as  Adam  heard  ;  like  Jacob  strive 
With  His  own  angel,  walk  as  Enoch,  when 
God  took  him ;  or  be  like  Elijah  rapt 
By  Israel's  fiery  chariot  to  the  skies  ! 17 


PSALM    I. 

BLEST  is  the  man  that  hath  not  walked 
In  counsel  with  the  ungodly  band, 

Who  feared  to  sit  where  scorners  talked, 
Or  in  the  sinners'  way  to  stand. 


PSALM  I.  249 

But  ever  in  thy  holy  law 

He  finds,  O  Lord,  his  chief  delight, 
Doth  thence  his  daily  comfort  draw, 

And  meditates  thereon  by  night. 

Just  as  a  tree  that  set  between 

The  streams  of  waters  bears  its  fruit, 

So  his  unwithered  leaf  is  seen, 

And  blessings  crown  his  wholesome  root. 

And  thus  he  prospers  all  his  days, 

But  the  ungodly  are  not  so,  — 
As  driven  through  unstable  ways 

Like  chaff  before  the  wind  they  go. 

Therefore,  cannot  the  men  of  sin 
In  judgment  meet  thy  just  demand, 

Or  seek  thy  sacred  courts,  or  in 

Thy  house  with  holy  reverence  stand. 

Well  knows  the  Lord  his  children's  way, 
And  is  their  sure  defence  and  guide, 

While  sinners  vainly  run  their  day, 
And  do  but  perish  in  their  pride. 


250  POEMS. 


THE  TIME  OF  NEED. 

IN  time  of  need  to  Thee  I  cry  ; 

Yet  ere  my  faltering  lips  can  plead, 
My  conscious  spirit  gives  reply  — 

"Lord  !  when  is  not  the  time  of  need?" 

The  first  faint  glow  of  dawning  life, 

The  bloom  of  youth  and  manhood's  prime, 

And  wearied  age,  that  quits  the  strife 
Of  mortal  toils,  declare  the  time. 

The  time  —  when  trust  in  earthly  powers 
Grows  weak  'mid  ills  of  gathering  speed, — 

But  oh,  the  gladdest  flight  of  hours 
Supremest  crowns  the  time  of  need. 

Each  day  some  new  temptation  tries 
To  wreck  my  faith,  my  hope  defeat ; 

And  every  moment,  as  it  flies, 

Would  lure  me  from  thy  mercy-seat. 

But,  gracious  Lord !  in  life  and  death, 
In  joy  or  grief,  be  this  my  heed  — 

My  earliest  and  my  latest  breath 
Bound  one  unceasing  time  of  need. 


HYMN.  251 


HYMN 

FOK   A  PUBLIC  OCCASION. 

WHEN  war's  dread  trumpets  sound  alarms, 
And  kindling  nations  rush  to  arms, 
THEE  they  invoke,  through  all  their  coasts, 
By  thy  great  name,  THE  LORD  OF  HOSTS  ! 

Through  age  on  age,  by  Thee  controlled, 
The  stormy  tide  of  battle  rolled, 
And  Victory,  in  immortal  light, 
Unfurled  her  standard  for  the  Right. 

At  thy  right  hand,  eternal  Truth 

Stands,  crowned  and  armed,  in  strength  and 

youth  ; 

And  Freedom  bides  the  battle-shock, 
By  Thee,  her  fortress  and  her  rock. 

In  darkest  hours,  when  foes  of  Good 
In  conflict  with  her  champions  stood, 
Thy  conquest  broke  the  sons  of  111, 
And  bent  the  nations  to  thy  will. 

For  this,  our  sires,  in  ancient  days, 

To  Thee,  their  refuge,  brought  the  praise  ; 

And  now,  descended  honor  brings 

New  tribute  to  the  King  of  kings ! 


252  POEMS. 


PSALM    XL VI. 

OUR  strength  and  refuge  is  our  God, 

A  present  help  in  every  fear ; 
No  ill  can  reach  our  fixed  abode, 

In  seas  though  mountains  disappear. 

What  though  the  swelling  waters  roar, 
And  shake  the  mountains  to  their  base, 

A  gentle  stream  for  evermore 
Makes  glad  his  city's  holy-place. 

In  vain  the  heathen  raged  around 

The   courts  where  dwells  the  Lord  most 

high ; 
He  spake  —  earth  melted  at  the  sound,  — 

Right  early  was  our  succor  nigh. 

Come,  see  what  wonders  God  hath  wrought ! 

He  bade  the  jarring  nations  cease  ; 
The   swords   and    spears    with   which    they 
fought, 

He  brake,  and  turned  their  wars  to  peace. 

"  Be  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  God  ! 

All  earth  shall  own  my  sovereign  will," — 
The  Lord  of  hosts  is  our  abode, 

And  Jacob's  God  our  refuge  still ! 


EPHESIANS   VI.  253 


EPHESIANS   VI. 

TRAVELLING  on  the  King's  highway 
Far  I  seek  the  heavenly  gate  ; 

Dangers  threatening  all  the  day, 
Foes  and  fears  the  night  await. 

Yet  the  city  must  be  won, 

Lord,  for  thy  subduing  might ! 

Gird  for  me  my  armor  on, 
Make  me  ready  for  the  fight. 

Outward  many  a  deadly  toil, 
Deadlier  still  the  snares  within, 

Lord,  wilt  thou  my  tempters  foil, 
Baffle  Satan,  conquer  sin. 

Ever  close  my  loins  around 
Clasp  thy  Truth,  as  on  I  press, 

And  be  still  my  breastplate  found 
All  complete  in  Righteousness. 

Conflicts  throng  the  thorny  road, 
Friends  will  fail  and  foes  increase ; 

Bid  my  pilgrim  feet  be  shod, 

Well  prepared  with  Gospel  peace. 


254  POEMS. 

More  than  all,  before  my  heart 
Help  me  hold  the  shield  of  Faith, 

This  shall  quench  each  fiery  dart, 
Vanquish  hell  and  conquer  death. 

Be  Salvation's  helmet  mine, 
And  for  my  triumphant  sword, 

Grasping,  never  to  resign 

God's  eternal  conquering  Word. 

Thus  in  armor  would  I  stay, 
Praying  still  and  watching  fast, 

Travel  through  the  King's  highway, 
Reach  the  heavenly  gate  at  last. 


H  Y  M  N. 

INSTANT  before  His  throne 
Uncounted  hosts  of  light, 

In  anthems  of  immortal  tone 
With  strains  of  heaven  unite. 

The  holy  cherub  choir 
Attend  with  folded  wing, 

And  seraphs,  tuned  to  hymns  of  fire, 
In  concert  with  them  sing. 


HYMN.  255 

The  arcliangelic  band 

One  voice  in  chorus  raise, 
And  while  with  faces  veiled  they  stand 

Recount  their  Maker's  praise. 

There  saints,  once  sinners,  meet, 

Elders  and  kings  adore, 
Cast  crowns  and  honors  at  his  feet, 

And  worship  evermore. 

Eternal  are  their  songs, 

Eternal  is  their  joy, 
To  Goodness  Infinite  belongs 

Their  infinite  employ. 

O  holy,  happy  souls  ! 

Where  bliss  is  perfect  good, 
Nor  past  recedes,  nor  future  rolls, 

Nor  sin  nor  care  intrude. 

Our  years  are  grief  and  sin, 

How  brief  their  measure  given  ! 

Yet  grudge  we  hours  that  lose  or  win 
Eternity  and  heaven  ! 


256  POEMS. 


A   CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

How  hallowed  grew  the  night, 

When  the  auspicious  light 
Of    heaven,    descending,    shone    along    the 
plain, 

And  wondering  shepherds  heard 

The  soul-inspiring  word 
That  swelled,  exultant,  the  celestial  strain  ! 

What  though  all  earth  was  still, 
And  no  ecstatic  thrill 
In    wakening    lands    the    gracious   message 

hailed  — 

Yet  through  heaven's  highest  cope 
Echoed  immortal  hope, 

And  hell's  dark  caves  beneath  trembled  and 
wailed ! 

"  Peace  and  good-will  to  earth, 

For,  lo,  a  Saviour's  birth  !  " 
So    the    high    song    addressed    the    simple 
swains  — 

"  The  gates  of  life  again 

Open  to  guilty  men, 
For  God,  the  God  of  love,  eternal  reigns  I" 


"PASS  ON,  RELENTLESS  WORLD."      257 

Let,  then,  creation  sing  — 

"  Hail,  sovereign  Priest  and  King ! 
Blest  be  thy  holy  name  and  holy  word  ; 

Hail,  Son  of  God  most  high, 

Helper  forever  nigh, 
Hail,  Prince  of  Peace  and  universal  Lord  !  " 


'PASS   ON,  RELENTLESS   WORLD." 

1840. 

SWIFTER  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 

Down  time's  unquiet  current  hurled, 
Thou  passest  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world  ! 
Thou  passest  on  !     Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path, 
And  prayers  and  tears  alike  have  been 

In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath ! 

Thou  passest  on,  and  with  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,  the  cares  of  age, 
And  smiles  and  tears  and  joy  and  woe 

Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ; 
There  every  day,  like  yesterday, 

\Vrites  hopes  that  end  in  mockery ; 
But  who  shall  tear  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  ? 


258  POEMS. 

Thou  passest  on !  and  at  thy  side, 

Even  as  a  shade  oblivion  treads, 
And  o'er  the  dreams  of  human  pride 

His  misty  shroud  forever  spreads  ; 
Where  all  thine  iron  hand  hath  traced 

Upon  that  gloomy  scroll  to-day, 
With  records  ages  since  effaced, 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay. 

Thou  passest  on  ;  with  thee  the  vain, 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting  blaze, 
Pride  framed  of  dust,  and  folly's  train, 

Who  court  thy  love  and  run  thy  ways ; 
But  thou  and  I,  —  and  be  it  so,  — 

Press  onward  to  eternity  ; 
Yet  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

Thou  hast  thy  friends,  —  I  would  have  mine; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts,  —  leave   me  my 

own  ; 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  th}r  slavish  throne ; 
I  see  thee  pass  without  a  sigh,  — - 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now. 
The  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye, 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 


HYMN.  259 

Pass  on,  relentless  world  !     I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven ; 
Pass  on,  in  God's  name,  —  only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given ; 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fixed  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 


HYMN. 

From  the  German  of  Hardenberg.18 

IF  I  only  have  my  Saviour, 

If  my  Lord  be  only  mine, 
If  my  heart  refuse  to  waver, 

Holding  fast  his  truth  divine, 
Then,  how  lightly  o'er  my  bosom 

Pass  the  pains  that  others  feel, 
Every  thought  a  heavenly  blossom, 

Love  and  joy  and  holy  zeal ! 

If  I  have  my  Saviour  only, 
All  the  rest  I  gladly  leave, 

Through  the  world  a  pilgrim  lonely, 
Him  I  follow,  Him  believe  ; 


260  POEMS. 

Loyal  to  my  only  master, 

Calm  I  see  the  wildered  maze, 

Where  they  hurry,  fast  and  faster, 

Down  the  world's  broad  crowded  ways. 

If  my  Saviour  be  beside  me, 

Oh,  how  sweet  my  soul's  repose  ! 
Nothing  ill  can  e'er  betide  me, 

Joy  my  life,  and  peace  its  close, 
Streams  from  out  his  heart  forever, 

All  my  glad  refreshings  give  ; 
Spring  of  plenty,  bounteous  river, 

All  may  taste  and  drink  and  live. 

If  I  only  have  my  Saviour, 

Safe  I  call  the  world  my  own  ; 
Earth,  how  vain  thy  best  endeavor 

Is  to  tear  me  from  His  throne; 
Oh,  the  bright  and  glorious  vision, 

By  His  lovely  presence  given, — 
Trials  changed  for  full  fruition, 

Fear  to  trust,  and  earth  for  heaven. 

Where  I  have  my  only  Saviour, 
There  my  home  and  country  is ; 

Stranger  else,  but  now  forever 
Heir  of  all  creation's  bliss, 


SONNET.  261 

Joined  with  Him,  I  meet  before  Him 

All  I  loved  and  lost  before ; 
Waiting  spirits  they  adore  Him, 

Love  and  bless  forevermore. 


SONNET. 

1  CORINTHIANS  xx. 
O  FOOL!    to   judge  that  He  who  from   the 

earth 

Created  man,  cannot  his  frame  restore, 
The  scattered  elements  from  every  shore 
Call  back  and  clothe  with  a  celestial  birth  ! 
See  from   its  sheath  the  buried  seed  break 

forth, 
Blade,  stalk,  leaf,  bud,  and  now  the  perfect 

flower, 
Changing,  and  'yet  the  same  ;   and  of   His 

power 

A  token  each ;  and  art  thou  counted  worth 
Less  than  the  meanest  herb  ?  changed  from 

the  dust, 

And  little  lower  than  the  angels  made  ; 
More    changed   by   sin,  to    death   itself   be 
trayed, 

Yet  heir  of  heaven  by  an  immortal  trust ! 
Doubter  unwise  in  reason's  narrow  school, 
Well  might  the   great  Apostle  say,  "Thou 

fool ! " 


262  POEMS. 


THE    PHILOSOPHERS. 

"  To 


THROUGHOUT  the  world  in  vain,  in  vain  they 

sought 

Some  solid  good  to  fill  the  restless  mind; 
The  long  desired,  but  still  unfound,  to  find, 
The    heart's    last    refuge   and   the    goal    of 

thought  ; 
What   in   its   depths   the   burning   soul  has 

wrought 

Of  visions  moulded  with  consuming  fire, 
And    all    that    sprang    spontaneous    to    the 

lyre, 

In  harmonies  of  golden  words  they  caught  ; 
Upon      the     mountain-top,     where     silence 

broods, 
They  questioned  of  the  stars  ;    and  by  the 

shore 
Asked    of  its  waves,  and  pondered  all  the 

lore 
Of    peopled    plain,    or    taught    in    solemn 

woods  ; 
Without,  —  within,  —  alas,    how    vain    the 

quest  ! 
Nor    mind,   nor   nature    breathed    heaven's 

holiest  whisper,  —  REST. 


HYMN.  263 


HYMN. 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord." 

FOREVER  with  the  Lord,  — 
O  thought  of  joy  divine  I 

The  loss  of  Eden's  fall  restored 
And  heaven  forever  mine. 

To  win  this  priceless  grace 
Jesus,  my  Saviour,  died ; 

Wide  as  the  ruin  of  our  race 
The  ransom  He  supplied. 

Salvation's  wondrous  boon,  - 
O  soul-reviving  word ! 

O  light  of  heaven's  eternal  noon, 
Forever  with  the  Lord  ! 

His  love,  while  ages  roll, 
Supremely  all  our  own, 

And  every  transport  of  the  soul. 
Immortal  as  his  throne. 

No  thought  of  things  to  mourn 
Those  holy  realms  afford, 

Unto  thy  rest,  my  soul,  return. 
Forever  with  the  Lord ! 


264  POEMS. 


CHRISTIANITY. 

SEE  in  the  East  a  STAR  !  the  orient  shade, 

Unfolding,  ushers  heaven's  unwonted  gleam  ; 

And  now  the  holy  light  its  gracious  beam 

Rests  o'er  the  place  where  the  young  child  is 
laid. 

Behold,  the  wise  men  come,  —  with  gifts  dis 
played, 

Gold,  myrrh,  frankincense,  —  while  on  Beth 
lehem's  plain 

The  shepherds  catch,  enraptured  though 
afraid, 

Of  heaven's  high  host  the  reassuring  strain. 

Death,  in  the  shadow  of  his  valley's  gloom 

Apparent  king,  hears  the  glad  sound,  —  and 
dies, — 

"  Immortal  life " !  shouts  the  reopening 
tomb,  — 

"  Immortal  life  !  "  the  exulting  host  replies  ! 

Nature's  long  doubt  is  solved ;  that  light 
from  far 

Still  brightening  kindles  faith  —  lo,  in  the 
East  a  STAII. 


MATTHEW  XXL  265 


MATTHEW   XXI.  5. 

HE  comes,  a  King  !  what  splendors  gird  him 
round, 

Jewel  and  sceptre  and  the  circled  gold ! 

What  hosts,  what  princes  of  the  realm  of 
old,  - 

The  chafing  squadron  and  the  clanging 
sound ! 

A  king  !  not  such  his  advent !  to  the  ground 

Cast  palms  and  garments,  and  hosannas 
sing ; 

This  is  the  Lord  of  heaven !  creation's 
King  ! 

Yet  pomp  nor  state  his  earthly  throne  sur 
round  ; 

His  throng  the  poor  and  humble,  sons  of 
shame, 

Who  crowd  his  steps  and  on  his  message 
wait ; 

A  beggar's  beast  his  seat  to  Zion's  gate, 

And  these  his  triumphs  and  his  might  pro 
claim  ; 

No  earthly  kingdom  thine  or  homage  vain  ; 

Throned  in  the  heart  alone,  O  Lord,  thy 
sovereign  reign  ! 


266  POEMS. 


SEASHORE   IDYL. 

WHERE  the  creek  with  bubbling  brim 
Flows  along  the  meadow's  rim, 
Speeding  through  its  devious  course 
As  the  current  lends  it  force ; 
There  uprising,  close  at  hand, 
Springs  the  stretch  of  tawny  sand, 
Echoing  to  the  stormy  clash, 
As  on  the  beach  wild  waters  dash  ; 
While  rising  cliffs,  on  either  hand, 
Enclose  and  bound  the  circling  strand. 
Here,  where  tides  incessant  pour 
Crested  billows  on  the  shore, 
Oft  the  bathers,  boys  and  girls, 
Sport  with  frolic  breakers'  curls, 
While  their  guardians,  perched  above, 
Watch  them  with  the  eyes  of  love, 
Lest  some  wave's  impulsive  clasp 
Fold  them  in  its  fatal  grasp  ; 
And  of  ships,  that  come  and  go, 
Evermore  a  gallant  show ! 
Not  far  off,  upon  their  way 
The  white  sails  gleam  across  the  bay. 
Here  the  mossers'  shanties  save 
What  the  ocean-harvest  gave. 


SEASHORE  IDYL.  267 

Idly  now  his  long-tossed  boat 
Rests,  that  wonted  erst  to  float. 
Where  the  rippling  eddies  sweep 
Hound  the  rocks  beneath  the  deep. 
When  the  summer  tide  is  low, 
Must  his  dancing  dory  go, 
Be  it  midnight,  or  ere  dawn 
Scatters  mists  on  shore  and  lawn ; 
Or  when  noon,  with  fervent  heats, 
On  the  glancing  water  beats  ; 
Early  matters  not,  or  late, 
With  his  sturdy  dame  for  mate  ; 
While  the  young  ones,  snug  and  warm, 
Sleep  at  morn,'  secure  from  harm. 
Fishers,  too,  with  handy  craft, 
Beat,  or  take  the  breeze  abaft, 
Scour  the  coast  that  lines  the  bay, 
And  hoist  on  board  their  dripping  prey. 

But  how  changed  grows  all  the  scene, 
On  the  wide-spread  meadow  green, 
Close  behind  the  beach,  not  far 
From  the  surge's  battling  jar, 
While  the  creek,  with  gentle  flow, 
Murmurs  ever,  soft  and  low. 

There  the  mower,  strong  and  lithe, 
Swings  and  sweeps  his  circling  scythe  ; 


268  POEMS. 

Or  the  searching  rake  he  plies, 
Till  long  gathered  windrows  rise  ; 
While  his  neighbor's  spreading-fork 
Helps  along  the  steady  work, 
Till  the  haycocks,  coned  and  brown, 
Like  small  isles  the  meadows  crown. 
Now  and  then  a  marsh-bird  springs, 
And  his  plaintive  whistle  rings  ; 
Then  the  mower  snatches  quick 
Shot-gun  hid  beneath  the  rick, 
Aims,  — but  with  that  brief  delay 
Snipe  or  plover  soars  away. 

Soon  from  some  more  inland  plain 
Lumbers  down  the  farmer's  wain  ; 
Oft  his  horse's  hoofs  encased 
In  meadow-shoes  securely  laced  ; 
Where  such  slumpy  ground  imbeds 
Slimmer  feet,  he  safely  treads ; 
Drags  the  high-piled  wagon  on 
Till  the  solid  earth  be  won  ; 
Soon  within  the  homestead  yard 
Quaint  haystacks  his  toil  reward.     . 

Often,  when  the  storm-king's  blast 
Shakes  sea-caverns,  deep  and  vast, 
Strips  from  out  its  rocky  bed 
Kelp,  by  waves  on  beaches  spread, 


SEASHORE  IDYL.  269 

Then  the  farm-boy  drives  his  team 
Where  long  heaps  in  sunlight  gleam, 
And  rejoicing  hauls  it  Jiome, 
Snatched  from  the  reluctant  foam  ; 
And  the  sea-born  treasure  yields 
Bounteous  gain  to  bless  his  fields. 

But  the  meadows,  lately  seen 
Fresh  in  ripest  summer  green, 
And  with  wandering  voices  glad 
Silent  now,  with  aspect  sad, 
Spreads  a  flat  and  lonely  marsh, 
Hears  not,  far,  the  echoes  harsh 
Rise  with  ocean's  ebb  and  flow, 
While  the  creek  runs  soft  and  low. 

But,  apart  from  the  sea-cr}^ 
When  the  winds  and  waves  are  high ; 
Or  glee  of  children  at  their  play, 
As  from  school  they  burst  away; 
Or,  perchance,  from  lonely  bark 
Of  true  watch-dog,  in  the  dark  ; 
Or,  ere  dawn,  the  echoed  cheer 
Of  day's  early  chanticleer  ; 
Or  some  wagon's  distant  din 
On  the  highway,  clattering  in  ; 
Or  morn's  harmony,  that  floats 
From  forest  depths,  in  myriad  notes ; 


270  POEMS. 

Or  scream  of  some  night  heron,  gaunt,19 
Soaring  from  his  sedgy  haunt ; 
Throughout  all  the  region  round 
Broods  a  stillness  so  profound, 
That  scarce  other  voice  more  rude 
May  on  the  studious  muse  intrude ; 
While  the  creek's  melodious  flow 
Runs  forever,  soft  and  low. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1.    PAGE  54. 

It  was  after  his  retirement  from  the  Presidency  that  the 
fine  of  §1,000,  imposed  upon  Gen.  Jackson,  when  in  mili 
tary  command  at  New  Orleans,  by  an  upright  magistrate, 
was  remitted  by  Congress.  The  poem  was  written  while 
the  proposition  for  the  remission  was  before  Congress. 
The  veteran  himself  had  made  no  formal  request  for  it; 
but  the  hill  passed.  The  fine  itself  had  been  discharged, 
at  the  time  of  the  judgment,  by  citizens  of  New  Orleans. 

NOTE  2.    PAGE  (55. 

The  harbor  of  Scituate,  Mass.,  is  not  very  spacious,  but 
still  large  enough  to  accommodate  many  vessels.  It  is  so 
conveniently  situated,  about  midway  between  Boston  and 
('•ipe  Cod.  that  the  United  States  has  commenced  opera 
tions  intended  to  constitute  it  a  harbor  of  refuge  for  ves 
sels  in  distress.  At  present  the  water  on  the  bar  is  too 
shoal  to  admit  craft  drawing  more  than  about  ten  feet  of 
water,  at  ordinary  times  of  tide.  But  in  an  easterly  gale, 
when  the  water  is  driven  towards  the  harbor,  which  faces 
nearly  east,  much  larger  ships  have  entered  it  with  little  or 
no  damage.  In  fact,  various  instances  have  occurred  when 
vessels  of  several  hundred  tons  burthen,  under  a  master 
acquainted  with  the  place,  have  escaped  from  a  north 
easterly  gale  by  running  safely  into  Scituate  Harbor  at  a 
favorable  time  of  tide. 

NOTE  3.    PAGE  68. 

A  "  retort  courteous  "  to  the  following  epigram,  which 
wont  the  rounds  of  the  newspapers  some  years  since,  under 
the  name  of  Thomas  Campbell,  Esq.:  — 

273 


274  SOTES. 

"  United  States  !  your  banner  wears 

Two  emblems:  one  of  fame; 
Alas,  the  other  that  it  bears 
Reminds  us  of  your  shame  ! 

"  The  white  man's  liberty,  in  tj'pes, 

Stands  blazoned  by  your  stars; 
But  what's  the  meaning  of  your  stripes? 
They  mean  your  negroes'  scars." 

By  "  meteor  light "  reference  is  made  to  "The  meti-or 
flag  of  England,"  in  Mr.  Campbell's  spirited  poem,  "  i'o 
mariners  of  England,"  etc. 

NOTE  4.    PAGE  (>9. 

A  celebration  took  place  at  Deerfield  on  the  17th  of  Sep 
tember,  1875,  in  commemoration  of  the  massacre  of  Bloody 
Brook,  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago.  It  seems  that,  on 
the  occasion  in  question,  Captain  Lothrop  with  eighty  young 
men  —  "  the  flower  of  Essex  County  "  — under  his  commam., 
and  a  number  of  teams,  marched  fromHadley  to  gather  and 
bring  in  a  quantity  of  grain  from  Deerfield.  On  their  re 
turn  they  stopped  to  pluck  grapes  near  the  stream,  after 
wards  known  as  Bloody  Brook.  Here  they  were  assailed 
by  a  body  of  Indians,  numbering  seven  or  eight  hundred, 
who  were  lying  in  wait  for  their  approach.  A  brief  but 
desperate  conflict  took  place.  Seventy  of  the  young  me;i 
were  slain,  and  afterwards  buried  in  one  grave.  "  Never," 
says  a  historian  of  the  period,  "  had  the  country  seen  such 
a  bloody  hour."  It  is  said  there  was  scarcely  a  family  in 
Essex  which  did  not  feel  the  blow.  Major  Treat  at  Hadley, 
and  Captain  Mosely  at  Deerfield,  hastened  to  the  Held,  too 
late  to  save  their  comrades,  but  fell  upon  the  Indians, 
routed  them,  and  slew  ninety-six  of  their  number.  In  a 
recent  account  the  Springfield  Union  says:  "That  night 
Treat  and  Mosely  and  their  men  slept  in  the  Deerfield  gar 
risons,  and  next  day  returned  to  Bloody  Brook  to  gather  up 
the  bodies  of  their  beloved  comrades.  One  of  them,  Robert 
Dutch,  of  Ipswich,  left  for  dead  the  day  before  both  by  the 
whites  and  Indians,  and  who  was  stark  naked,  rose,  and, 
with  his  face  covered  with  blood,  proved  to  be  alive.  He 
lived  many  years  thereafter." 


NOTES.  275 


NOTE  5.    PAGE  78. 

A  GREEK  SONG.  —  In  a  former  number  of  this  magazine 
appeared  a  "  Song  of  Spring,"  of  which  the  refrain  was  the 
<  Jreek  words  'Hl.d',  >lidf  ^tiifnav  —  that  is,  "  The  swallow  has 
••erne,  has  come."  The  whole  song  is  given  in  a  work  by 
Athenaeus  (about  A.D.  ;500)  called  &ftirvooo<j>iaTai  (or  the  sup 
per  of  the  learned  men),  at  which  various  characters  are 
introduced,  who  entertain  each  other  with  anecdotes  and 
wise  sayings.  Amongst  the  rest  was  the  celebrated  physi 
cian  Galen.  At  this  repast  a  Greek  song  was  recited,  said 
to  have  been  in  use  by  the  boys  of  the  island  of  Rhodes,  at 
the  coming  of  the  swallow,  the  harbinger  of  spring,  on  which 
occasion  they  went  about  the  town,  calling  themselves  "  The 
Swallows,"  and  soliciting  gifts.  It  is  a  very  curious  fact, 
that  a  similar  practice  once  prevailed,  if  it  does  not  now,  in 
parts,  at  least,  of  New  England,  when  children,  partially 
disguised,  visited  the  houses  of  neighbors  and  friends  on  the 
evening  before  Thanksgiving  day  for  a  similar  purpose, 
often  thus  promoting  pleasant  surprise  and  merriment. 
There  have  been  English  translations  of  the  "  Swallow- 
sung,"  as  it  may  be  called,  but,  so  far  as  seen  by  the  present 
translator,  they  are  merely  imitations.  He  has  attempted 
to  render  this  lively  strain  as  literally  as  the  genius  of  the 
two  languages  permits.  His  version  consists  of  eighteen 
lines;  the  Greek  has  nineteen,  but  sometimes  of  only  two 
words.  —  From  Harper's  Magazine. 


NOTE  fi.    PAGE  79. 

Return  of  the  rowing  crew  of  Harvard  College,  Mass., 
from  their  match  with  the  crew  of  Oxford  University,  Eng 
land. 

NOTE  7.    PAGE  80. 

Of  late  years  it  is  well  known  that  many  Englishmen 
of  rank  and  fortune  have  travelled  in  the  United  States, 
and  millions  of  acres  of  land  in  our  western  country  have 
come  into  their  possession  through  their  agents. 


276  NOTES. 


NOTE  8.    PAGE  97. 

Of  this  ode  and  the  preceding  one,  "Ad  Lydiain,"  the 
learned  Scaliger  said  that  he  "  had  rather  have  written  them 
than  to  be  king  of  Arragon ;  "  a  division  of  Spain,  in  his  day, 
proverbial  for  its  greatness. 

NOTE  9.    PAGE  105. 

" and  the  repeated  air 

Of  sad  Electra's  poet  bad  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare." 

—  Milton,  Sonnet. 

NOTE  10.    PAGE  111. 

The  translations  of  this  famous  passage  by  Pope  and 
Tennyson  are  here  subjoined:  — 

ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH. 

ILIAD,    XVIII.   202. 

So  saying  light-foot  Tris  pass'd  away, 
Then  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus;  and  round 
The  warrior's  puissant  shoulders  Pallas  flung 
Her  fringed  regis,  and  around  his  head 
The  glorious  goddess  wreath'd  a  golden  cloud, 
And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining  flame. 
As  when  smoke  from  a  city  goes  to  heaven 
Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by  foes. 
All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous  war 
From  their  own  city,  and  with  set  of  sun 
Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the  glare 
Flies  streaming,  if  perchance  the  neighbors  round 
May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the  war; 
So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went  to  heaven. 
From  wall  to  dyke  he  slept,  he  stood,  nor  joined 
The  Achsrans —  honoring  his  wise  mother's  word  — 
There  standing,  shouted;  Pallas  far  away 
Call'd:  and  a  boundless  panic  shook  the  foe. 
For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trumpet  shrills, 
Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a  town, 
So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  ^Eakides; 


NOTES.  277 

And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  /Kakides 
Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all  their  hearts 
Were  troubled  and  the  full-maiied  horses  whirl'd 
The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs  at  hand; 
Ami  sheer-astounded  were  the  charioteers 
To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 
That  always  o'er  the  great  Peleion'S  head 
Burnt,  for  the  bright-eyed  goddess  made  it  burn. 
Thrice  from  the  dyke  he  sent  his  mighty  shout, 
Thrice  backward  reeled  the  Trojans  and  allies; 
And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their  noblest  died 
Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH. 

She  spoke  and  passed  in  air,  the  hero  rose; 

Her  ;cgis  Pallas  o'er  his  shoulder  throws; 

Around  his  brows  a  golden  cloud  she  spread; 

A  stream  of  glory  flamed  above  his  head. 

As  when  from  some  beleaguered  town  arise 

The  smokes  high  curling  to  the  shaded  skies, 

(Seen  from  some  island,  or  the  main  afar, 

When  men,  distressed,  hang  out  the  sign  of  war;) 

Soon  as  the  sun  in  ocean  hides  his  rays, 

Thick  on  the  hills  the  flaming  beacons  blaze; 

With  long  projected  beams  the  seas  are  bright. 

And  heaven's  high  arch  reflects  the  ruddy  light. 

So  from  Achilles'  head  the  splendors  rise, 

Reflecting  blaxe  on  hla/e  against  the  skies. 

Forth  march'd  the  chief,  and,  distant  from  the  crowd; 

High  on  the  rampart  rais'd  his  voice  aloud; 

With  her  own  shout  Minerva  swells  the  sound; 

Troy  starts  astonish'd,  and  the  shores  rebound. 

As  i!ie  loud  trumpet's  brazen  mouth  from  f.ir, 

With  thrilling  clangor  sounds  lh'  alarm  of  war, 

Struck  from  the  walls  the  echoes  !l«-af  on  high, 

And  the  round  bulwarks  and  thick  towers  reply, 

So  high  his  lira/en  voice  the  hero  rear'd; 

Hosts  drop  their  arms  and  trembled  as  they  heard; 

And  back  their  chariots  roll  and  coursers  bound, 

And  steeds  and  men  He  mingled  on  the  ground; 


278  NOTES. 

Aghast  they  see  the  living  lightnings  play. 
And  turn  their  eyeballs  from  the  Hashing  ray. 
Thrice  from  the  trench  his  dreadful  voice  he  raised, 
And  thrice  they  fled,  confounded  and  amazed; 
Twelve,  in  the  tumult  wedg'd,  untimely  rush'd 
On  their  own  snears,  by  their  own  chariots  crushed. 

Alexander  Pope. 

NOTE  11.    PAGE  145. 

The  constellation  of  the  Swan,  it  will  be  observed,  forms 
a  large  and  nearly  perfect  cross. 

NOTE  12.    PAGE  148. 

ANOTHER  DISCLOSURE.  —  At  a  public  meeting  in  Hart 
ford,  Conn.,  W.  Hammersley,  Esq.,  of  that  city,  a  well- 
known  citizen,  stated  that  "a  clergyman,  an  old  friend  of 
!Mr.  Stanton,  wrote  to  that  official  after  the  battle  of  Antie- 
tam,  asking  of  him  an  explanation  of  the  seeming  opposition 
of  the  administration  to  McClellan,  and  their  repeated 
failure  to  co-operate  with  him  in  his  plans?  Mr.  Stanton 
replied  in  a  letter  of  eight  pages,  admittinr;  that  the  </<>i:ern- 
ment  had  not  sustained  McClellan,  and  attempting  to  just  i/;/ 
the  fact  by  alleging  as  a  reason  that  McClellan  was  becoming 
too  popular  with  the  army!  and  that  the  'good  of  the 
cause  '  (the  re-election  of  Lincoln)  '  required  that  he  should 
-iied  !  '  ' 

"  This  letter,"  said  Mr.  Hammersley,  "  I  know  to  be  in 
existence."  —  Xew  York  paper. 

NOTE  13.    PAGE  175. 

This  famous  ode  is  by  an  uncertain  author,  though  usually 
attributed  to  a  poet  named  Callistratus.  It  has  been  often 
assigned  to  Alcaeus,  who  appears,  however,  to  have  flour 
ished  some  eighty  years  before  the  event  which  it  commem 
orates.  The  ode  is  full  of  the  simple  and  old  (4  reek  nerve 
and  spirit,  and  I  find  it  translated  in  Eland's  Anthology 
(Merivale's  edition,  London,  1S:>:»),  by  Lord  Denman,  late 
Chief  Justice  of  England,  but  in  a  manner  which  seems  to 
me  to  deprive  it  of  all  its  ancient  fire.  I  had  not  seen  Lord 
Denman 's,  or  any  other,  when  this  was  written.  His  is  ap- 


NOTES.  279 

pencled,  in  two  efforts,  which  seem  a  little  vapid,  and  which 
fail  to  give  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the  original.  This  is  the 
first : 

"  I'll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  bough, 
The  sword  that  laid  the  tyrant  low, 
When  patriots,  burning  to  be  free, 
To  Athens  gave  equality. 

"  Harmodius,  hail  !  though  'reft  of  breath, 
Thou  ne'er  shalt  feel  the  stroke  of  death; 
The  heroes'  happy  isles  shall  be 
The  bright  abode  allotted  thee. 

I 

"  I'll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  bough, 
The  sword  that  laid  Hipparchus  low, 
When  at  Minerva's  adverse  fane 
He  knelt  and  never  rose  again. 

"  While  Freedom's  name  is  understood, 
You  shall  delight  the  wise  and  good; 
You  dared  to  set  your  country  free, 
And  gave  her  laws  Equality." 

Naturally,  as  might  he  thought,  not  much  satisfied  with 
his  first  attempt,  which  was  little  more  than  a  mere  prosaic 
paraphrase  ol'  this  splendid  ode,  he  tried  again,  and  this  ver 
sion  was  not  much  better.  Here  it  is  : 

"  In  myrtle  my  sword  I  will  wreathe, 

Like  our  patriots  the  noble  and  brave, 
Who  devoted  the  tyrant  to  death, 
And  to  Athens  equality  gave. 

'•  Lov'd  Harmodius,  thou  never  shalt  die  ! 

The  poets  exultingly  tell 
That  thine  is  the  fulness  of  joy, 
Where  Achilles  and  Diomed  dwell. 

"  In  myrtle  my  sword  I  will  wreathe, 

Like  our  patriots,  noble  and  brave, 
Who  devoted  Hipparchus  to  death, 
And  buried  his  pride  in  the  grave. 


280  XOTES. 

"  At  the  altar  the  tyrant  they  seized, 

While  Minerva  he  vainly  implored, 

And  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom  was  pleased 

With  the  victim  of  Liberty's  sword. 

"  May  your  bliss  be  immortal  on  high, 
Among  men  as  your  glory  shall  be  ! 
Ye  doomed  the  usurper  to  die, 
And  bade  our  dear  country  be  free." 

Saying  nothing  of  such  rhymes  as  "  bough  "  and  "  low," 
"  wreathe  "  and  "  death,"  it  will  be  evident  enough  to  those 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  original,  that  these  versions 
fail  altogether  to  give  the  real  sense  and  spirit  of  the  Greek. 

It  may  be  remarked  that  the  Greek  passage  in  the  first 
line  does  not  imply  that  the  sword  was  wreathed  in  myrtle, 
as  a  sign  of  triumph,  but  was  covered  by  the  myrtle  by  way 
of  concealment.  The  following  is  a  literal  prose  transla 
tion  : 

"  Covered  by  a  branch  of  myrtle  will  I  carry  my  sword, 
as  did  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton,  when  they  slew  the 
tyrant  and  made  Athens  the  seat  of  equal  laws. 

"  Dearest  Harmodius  !  you  have  not  yet  died;  they  say 
you  are  in  the  Islands  of  the  Blest;  where  still  is  the  swift- 
footed  Achilles,  and,  as  they  also  say,  is  the  brave  Diomed, 
son  of  Tydeus. 

"  Wreathed  with  a  branch  of  myrtle  will  I  carry  my 
sword,  as  did  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton,  when,  at  the 
Athenian  sacrifices,  they  slew  the  man,  the  tyrant  Hip- 
parchus. 

"  Forever  will  your  glory  endure,  dearest  Harmodius  and 
Aristogeiton,  because  ye  slew  the  tyrant  and  made  equal 
laws  for  Athens." 

NOTE  14.    PAGE  197. 

Suggested  by  a  passage  in  Carlyle's  "Life  of  Frederic 
II." 

NOTE  15.     PAGE  215. 

ARNAULT'S  WITHERED  LEAF.—  In  the  fables  of  Antoine 
Victor  Arnault  — a  French  poet  of  the  last  century  —  there 


NOTES.  281 

is  one,  well  known  to  readers  of  French,  which  is  re 
markable  for  its  pathetic  simplicity  and  beauty.  It  is  called 
the  "  Withered  Leaf,"  and  we  quote  it  in  the  original:  — 

"  De  ta  tige  detachee, 
Pauvre  feuille  dessech^e, 
Oil  vas-tu?  —  Je  n'en  sais  rien. 
L'orage  a  frappe'  le  chene 
Qui  seul  etait  mon  soutien. 
De  son  inconstante  haleine, 
Le  zephyr  oil  1'aquilon 
Depuis  ce  jour  me  promene 
De  la  foret  a  la  plaine, 
De  la  montagne  an  vallon. 
Je  vais  ou  le  vent  me  mene, 
Sans  me  plaindre  ou  m'effrayer; 
Je  vais  oil  va  toute  chose, 
Oil  va  la  feuille  de  rose 
Et  la  feuille  de  laurier." 

A  translation  of  this  into  Italian  was  made  by  the  dis 
tinguished  Italian  poet,  Leopardi,  which,  though  he  names 
it  an  imitation,  preserves  much  of  the  peculiar  tone  of  the 
original :  — 

"  Lungi  dal  proprio  ramo, 

Povera  foglia  frale, 

Dove  vai  tu? — Dal  faggio 

La  dov'  io  nacqui  mi  divise  il  vento. 

Esso,  tornado,  a  volo 

Dal  bosco  alia  campagna, 

Dalla  valle  mi  porta  alia  montagna. 

Seco  perpetuamente 

Vo  pellegrina,  e  tutto  1'  altro  ignore; 

Vo  dove  ogni  altra  cosa; 

Dove  naturalmente 

Va  la  foglia  di  rosa, 

E  la  foglia  d'alloro." 

Lord   Macaulay  made   the    following  English  version, 
which  is  to  be  found  in  his  later  miscellanies:  — 
"  Thou  poor  leaf,  so  sere  and  frail, 
Sport  of  every  wanton  gale, 
Whence,  and  whither,  dost  thou  fly, 
Through  this  bleak,  autumnal  sky? 


282  NOTES. 

On  a  noble  oak  I  grew, 
Green,  and  broad,  and  fair  to  view; 
But  the  monarch  of  the  shade 
By  the  tempest  low  was  laid. 
From  that  time  I  wander  o'er 
Wood  and  valley,  hill  and  moor, 
Wheresoe'er  the  wind  is  blowing, 
Nothing  caring,  nothing  knowing; 
Thither  go  I,  whither  goes 
Glory's  laurel,  Beauty's  rose." 

This  has  the  defect  of  some  of  Macaulay's  writings,  of 
being  too  rhetorical.  Arnault,  hi  his  simple  lines,  has 
nothing  of  "  bleak  autumnal  skies,"  nor  of  "noble  oaks," 
nor  of  "monarch  of  the  shade,"  nor  of  "  Glory's  laurel  and 
Beauty's  rose."  Fifteen  years  ago  one  of  our  own  poets, 
Mr.  Bryant,  tried  his  hand  upon  the  little  poem,  with  this 
success :  — 

"  Faded,  severed  from  thy  bough, 

Poor  leaf  !  whither  goest  thou  ? 

Ask  me  not;  my  parent  oak 

Lately  felt  the  tempest's  stroke. 

Since  that  moment,  every  gale 

From  the  wood  to  fields  below, 

From  the  mountains  to  the  vale, 

Bears  me  on,  a  withered  leaf, 

Wheresoe'er  the  wind  may  blow, 

Wandering  without  fear  or  grief, 

I  but  go  where  all  things  go. 

Where  the  rose's  leaf,  at  last, 

And  the  laurel's  leaf  are  cast." 

A  later  American  [English?]  version  we  find  in  Miss 
Edwards's  small  volume  of  poetry,  entitled  "  Ballads,"  re 
cently  published  by  Carleton,  as  follows:— 

"  Parted  from  thy  native  bough, 
Whither,  whither  goest  thou, 

Leaflet  frail  ? 
From  the  oak  tree  where  I  grew 

In  the  vale  ; 

From  the  woods  all  wet  with  dew 
Lo  !  the  wind  hath  torn  me  ! 


NOTES.  283 

Over  bill  and  plain  he  flew, 

And  hither  he  hath  borne  me. 
With  him  wandering  for  aye, 

Until  he  forsakes  me,  . 
J  with  many  others  stray, 

Heedless  where  he  takes  me  ;  — 

Where  the  leaf  of  laurel  goes, 

And  the  leaflet  of  the  rose." 

.Yew  York  Evening  Post. 

It  may  seem  venturesome  to  attempt  another  translation 
of  this  simple  but  pretty  piece,  which  has  been  tried  by  so 
many  hands;  but  it  was  thought  susceptible  of  a  more  literal 
rendering  into  English  than  in  either  of  the  preceding. 

NOTE  16.    PAGE  224. 

THE  FIRST  ECLOGUE  OF  VIRGIL,  LITERALLY  TRANS 
LATED.  —  This  Eclogue  consists  of  a  conversation  between 
two  Roman  shepherds,  Tityrus  and  Meliboeus.  The  latter 
is  leaving  his  native  region,  from  which  he  has  been  ex 
pelled  by  a  military  intruder.  Driving  his  tired  flock  before 
him,  he  encounters  Tityrus,  a  neighboring  shepherd,  who 
is  quietly  amusing  himself  as  described  in  the  poem.  Like 
multitudes  of  others,  Meliboeus,  at  the  end  of  the  civil  war 
which  established  the  young  Octavius,  afterwards  Augustus 
Cresar,  on  the  throne,  was  compelled  to  leave  his  farm  and 
home  and  to  flee  elsewhere,  perhaps  to  a  distant  and  foreign 
land.  Both  these  men  belonged  to  that  class  of  bondsmen 
employed  by  the  wealthier  Romans  as  husbandmen  and 
shepherds.  Tityrus,  at  an  advanced  period  of  life,  rinding 
himself  dispossessed  by  one  of  the  new  men,  went  to  Rome 
and  by  the  intercession  of  a  friend  at  court  was  re-estab 
lished  in  his  possessions.  This  Eclogue  is  reckoned  in  part 
an  allegory,  referring  to  Virgil's  own  fortunes,  he  having 
been  turned  out  of  his  farm  by  a  Roman  officer,  and  having 
regained  it  through  the  influence  of  a  friend  with  Augustus. 
The  tone  of  the  dialogue  is  simple  and  pastoral,  and  often 
plaintively  affecting.  The  parallel  between  its  narrative  and 
a  part  of  the  more  recent  history  of  this  repnblic  will  be  ob 
served;  though  we  must  remark  that,  so  far  as  we  have 


284  NOTES. 

known,  the  lands  of  those  residing  in  the  insurrectionary 
districts  have  been  obtained  not  by  soldiers,  but  more  by  a 
class  of  civilians,  commonly  styled  "  scallawags  "  and  "  car 
pet-baggers."  It  is  for  whatever  parallel  appears  between 
the  Roman  period  and  our  own,  that  we  have  taken  pains 
to  translate  the  Eclogue,  line  for  line.  American  Repub 
licanism  and  Roman  despotism,  as  referred  to  in  the 
Eclogue,  thus  serve  to  illustrate  one  another. 

It  is  stated  that  the  number  of  claims  on  file  at  Wash 
ington,  for  reparation  for  property  seized,  under  the  war 
administration,  belonging  to  persons  not  engaged  in  the 
rebellion,  amounts  to  20,176,  the  property  in  question  being 
valued  at  $10,020,000. 

NOTE  17.    PAGE  248. 

The  chariot  of  Israel  and  the  horsemen  thereof.  —  2 
Kings  ii.  12. 

NOTE  18.     PAGE  259. 

The  author  feels  bound  to  acknowledge  only  the  most 
superficial  acquaintance  witli  the  German  language  or  its 
literature.  The  following,  therefore,  must  account  for  the 
origin  of  the  translation  in  question.  Quite  a  mumber  of 
years  ago,  a  retired  Unitarian  clergyman  published  in  a 
daily  journal  a  prose  version  of  the  hymn,  expressing  a  hope 
that  some  one  would  versify  it.  Struck  by  the  circumstan 
ces  of  the  case,  as  well  as  by  the  uncommon  power  of  the  pro 
duction,  the  author  was  inspired  to  make  the  attempt.  In 
regard  to  several  of  the  rhymes  made  use  of,  namely,  "  wa 
ver,"  "endeavor,"  and  "forever,"  with  "Saviour,"  it  may 
be  remarked  that  the  English  language  admits  of  no  others 
appropriate  to  the  case ;  and  that  those  are  as  allowable  as 
many  employed  by  Dr.  "Watts,  Cowper,  and  other  hymnists. 
For  example,  there  seem  to  be  only  two  English  words  to 
rhyme  precisely  with  "  Saviour,"  namely,  behavior  and 
pavior.  A  remarkable  instance  of  rhymes  not  exactly  per 
fect,  but  which  will  scarcely  provoke  criticism,  occurs  in  a 
famous  passage  of  Moore's  poems;  in  which  not  one  termi 
nation  absolutely  accords  with  the  other:  — 


NOTES.  285 

"A  boat  at  midnight  sent  alone 

To  drift  upon  a  moonless  sea, 
A  lute  whose  leading  chord  is  gone, 
A  wounded  bird  that  has  but  one 
Imperfect  wing  to  soar  upon, 
Are  like  what  I  am  without  thee." 

NOTE  19.    PAGE  270. 

Our  native  poets  are  in  error  by  attributing  the  "  long 
deep  boom  ' '  of  the  European  bittern  to  our  American  bit 
tern  or  lesser  heron,  sometimes  called  the  "qua-bird,"  be 
cause  of  his  short,  shrill  note,  somewhat  similar  to  a  caw. 


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